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About Google Book Search Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web at |http: //books .google .com/I ', :. / ' \V^1 i «. ^ y 9 •••••• • • •• • • ••• • •• • • •< ••• • •"• • ••• • • • -• • • *•• • • • • • •••• •• • • •• • • * 4 *■ / • • • • • i •; I II K ;. ' I, II T II 'j .■ . I. ii A r. LK SIH lM)r»RRT PEEL. BART. ;-. ii'. F. vc. ■;■ li K := F .' V. I. V. (.: 'I I (> y. > mOM IIIK WORKS U F T II K r O F T J AND A H T I S T « OF O U K A T U It I 'I' A ! A H K M O f I n E ^5 I' E C T F U I. L Y L»EUICAT E :>. PREFACE. The Editor of this Volume trusts that his attempt to extend the knowledge aud appreciation of British Poetry and British Art will be favourably received by the Public. His object has been to colluct and arrange, in a popular and attractive form, the most [Kirfect speci- mens of the Poets, illustrated by tlie pencils of tlm Artists, of Great Britain. The task was one in which success is more easy than fiulurc; inasmuch as beauties so abound in our older Poets that the only difficulty lies in rejection. Vlll PUEFACE. The earliest age of English Poetry was one of sublime invention, and may here be traced m its course down to the days of agreeable imitation. It is not less instruc- tive than delightful to follow such inquiries ; and whether the reader is met by the inventive energy and luxurious rapture of the first Poets, by the various and abundant fancies that succeeded, by the ner\'ous and manly style which rose upon their decline, or by the gay and graceful imitators who sought to restore them — ^in all he will recognise sources of distinct delight, and ac- knowledge with the greatest of their later followers, the gratitude we owe to men who have given us " nobler loves ftnd nobler cares. The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight :" for such is the inheritance they bequeath to us, in the simplest exercise of their high privilege. What they receive, they do, indeed, bountifully distribute. " Poetry," says Lord Bacon, in the most perfect definition that was ever given, " conforms the shows of things to the desires of the soul." This power their works bestow in turn upon us all. May the present volume assist in extending the blessings of so divine an influence! Among these specimens of the Poets there may be several with which general readers are already familiar ; but they are such as could not have been omitted from a collection of this nature. The volume will be found to contain much that has been hitherto condemned to comparative oblivion. The Editor has sought by every possible means to give completeness to his work : — by consulting all PREFACE. IX the approved authorities, collating the text with the best editions, and comparing the statements and opi- nions of the most skilful and judicious critics. Having had the advantage that results from the labours of many who have gone before him, it cannot be pre- sumptuous in him to state that he has been enabled to correct numerous errors which had been transmitted from edition to edition. His extracts have been made from the earliest copies of the several writers; he has therefore retained the peculiar orthography of each, and presented them as they were originally produced, rather than as their mo- dem editors have transcribed them. He has thought it unadvisable to load his brief biographies with references to authorities ; but trusts they have been compiled with care and accuracy, and that he has maturely weighed the slight criticisms he has ventured to append to them. The Editor is bound to express his grateful thanks to the Artists who have aided him in his undertaking. To their kindness and liberality he is mainly indebted for the power to bring his volume within a reasonable rate of expense. It will be observed tliat he has given but one specimen of each Painter — his design being to supply examples of the Art as well as of the Poetry of Great Britain, and to obtain as much variety as was possible, in both. The illustrations are now engraved for the first time. He has obtained the assistance of the most eminent engravers ; and, he believes, the prints will be con- sidered as among the most successful productions of the age. b f PREFACE. In the confident anticipation of the plan of this work receiving the sanction of the public, it is proposed to issue a second part, which will contain the poets who follow Prior. The autographs have been copied from authentic documents. Although the most unremitting exertions were used to render the series complete, it was found impossible to procure those of Chaucer, Lydgate, James the First, Hawes, Carew, Quarles, Shirley, Habington, and Lovelace; and it may be asserted with some confidence that their existence is unknown to collectors. It only remains for the Editor to state, that the Publishers have co-operated with him in his endeavours to produce a work which shall be worthy of public patronage. TABLE OF CONTENTS. CHAUCER. PAGE From the Flouie and the Leafe ... 3 LYDGATE. From the Lyfe of our Ladye .... 1 1 From the Boke of Troye 12 I JAMES I. I From the King's Quair 15 1IAWE8. From the Pastime of Pleture . . . li> WYAT. The Lover complaineth the Unklnd- iiets of his Lovu 23 The Lover determlneth to Serve Falth- ftUly 24 SURREY. Prlffoner in Windiior, he recountcth his Pleasure there passed . , t . . 27 Description of Spring, wherein eche ' thing renewes, save only the Lover . 2!) PAGE A Praise of hys Love, wliereln he rc- proveth them that compare their Ladies with liis 29 Description of the restless State of a Lover, with Sute to his Lady, to rue on his Dicing Hart SO Description of the restless Estate of a Lover SI The Lover excuseth himself of sus- pected change 32 SACKVILLE. From the Induction to a Mirrour fur Magistrates 35 VERE. Fancy and Desire 43 The Judgement of Desire 44 The Shepheard's Commendation of his Nimph 45 A Lover disdained, complaineth . . . 4(; Lines attributed to the Earl of Ox- ford 47 OASCOIGNE. From a Vuyage into Hollande ... 4!) The Arraignment of a Liovrr . . . . 5i> KALEIQH. ■nK81«ipheu-«i . . 1 A FTCW.U to the Vuililn oT the IOC Tlitrtl«lL»f« A Tlilrm upon ibt Fiiiy Queen . . Tli.Nl«htbi!fonbi.I>..tli . . . On hk MMnu. the «ii«n The Cbsncter at ■ Ktm DAVIE3. From the Immoitiai'J or Hi DONNE. rSoheiDt. Lift. . . eSoul . . IK BPENHEB. FnnilhtFwrttQuHne .... 7» Pnm AMnpbel imd EUIU . . . . Ffom » TttsIUe ef WunM . . . ITon.Trt.tlMofRtllgloM . . . JONBON. From MMqua at Conit . ai,rawmNe6l«U^P«n, Ettio'^Njucii.u..-FioD LovrtSerrOtLot the BUml in DANIEL. CtdUiI*'! in To Ike Lidla Abbe aiffaTd . . . llymne to Di»i.».-F™n CjDihi*'! Song.— Ftom the Poetulet Borti.-PiDin Uie Foie . Epilapb on Elluhetb L. H To Heniy Wrtolli«ly. Eul* of South HI CORBET. IM DRAYTON. From Poli-Olblon TohHaoBVlnwnlCoihel PHINEAB FLEP From the Furple Wuid . GILES FLETC CHER. Hi ToHlniKir.u.dtl«H«p. . -. . BBAKBl-EARF. BonneU Eiclb . . CONTEXTS. XIU DRUMMOND. The Instability of Mortal Glory SonnetJi , PAGE . 139 . 160 WITHER. A Sonnet upon a Stolen Kisi From the Shephearda Hunting The Shcpheard's Rejulution . From Fair Virtue .... The Stedfa!>t Shvph€ard . . IfiS 1(>6 170 171 172 CAREW. Tb the Counte«« of Anglesey ... 175 Disdain Returned 177 lugratefUl Beauty Threatened . . . ih. Song 178 The Primrose ih. Pleasure.— From C PAOK Victorious Men of Earth 204 Good Morrow ib. Melancholy converted 205 Upon his Mistress sad ib, DAVENANT. From Gondibert 207 Song 210 Song ib. Song 211 WALLER, To a very Young Lady 2IS Song 2U To a Lady singing a Song of his Com- posing ib. On a Girdle 215 Love's Farewell ib. HABINGTON. Eccho to Narcissus 217 The Description of Castara .... 218 ToCastara 21i) MILTON. L'Allegro 221 II Penscroso 225 On his Blindness 229 SUCKLING. Song 231 Song 232 The Careless Lover 233 Constancy 234 Love tum'd to Hatred ib. Detraction execrated 234 BUTLER. From Hudibras 237 CRASHAW. 243 The Hymn, O Gloriosa Domina . . An Ode which was prefixed to a Prayer Booke given to a Young Gentle- woman 214 XIV CONTENTS. DENIIAM. PAGE Prom Cooper't Hill 249 Upon the Gftine of Chess 251 COWLEY. The Complaint 253 Resolved to Love 257 Anacreontics.— Drinking 258 The Grasshopper 259 LOVELACE. To Sir Peter Lely, on his Picture of Charles 1 201 To Lucasta. — Going to the Wars . . 262 The Scrutiny ib. To Althea.— From Prison .... 203 MARVELL. The Picture of T. C. in a Prospect of Flowers 265 Bermudas 266 The Nymph complaining for the Death of her Fawn 267 To hU Coy Mistress 270 DRYDEN. From Eleonora 273 From Rcligio Laid 275 From an Epistle to Sir Godfrey Kneller 277 A Song 279 ROSCOMMON. PAOB From an Essay on Translated Verse . 281 DORSET. Song 285 Song 287 SEDLEY. Song 289 The Indifference 290 Song 291 ROCHESTER. Upon Drinking in a Bowl .... 293 A Song 294 Constancy ib. Love and Life 295 A Song ib, SHEFFIELD. To a Coquet Beauty 297 On the Times 298 Song 299 PRIOR. From Henry and Emma SOI From Solomon 302 A Song 303 A Song 304 LIST OF THE PLATES. |j. Hayter W. Grcatlwch 23 |T. Hofland E. Goodall 27 Sl'BJECTB. ARTISFft. INURAVBRS. Pa-R 1 . PoETaT AKo Paihtikg E. T. Pairls F. W. Topham Hi 2. TasWoasiiip OFTHE LvaE. J.Wood W. Chevalier vii 3. Cradcbb. IM THE Arbour... W. Mulready, R. A W. ^nden S 4. TuK Flight iKTo Egtpt.... J.Martin E. Findcn „ 11 5. The Ladt Javs Beaufort. J. R. Herbert L. Stockt 15 6. La BsLLE PucELL J.Inslupp C. RolU 19 7. Cupids Mournivg over a BROKEN Lute , 8. WiMDioji Castle bt Moov- LIOUT ach 61 14. CcpiD AMD PsTCHE W. Etty, R.A W. H. Simmons ... 71 15. The Combat A. Cooper, R.A R.Parr 79 16. Plsasurb's Bavquet S. Hart W. Greatbach 83 17. The Jot Of Childhood SirT. Lawrence, P. R.A... . W. Finden 87 18. ROMABS IBSTRUCTIVO THE J „ ^ „ . ^ , «. ... . _ > H. P. Briggs, R.A T. Wrankmore 97 AXCIEHT BbITOXS ) 19. Shakspbarb IB nis Room AT Stbatpobd 20. Etob Colleob J.Stark W.J.Cooke 115 21. The Mother E. H. Baily, R.A J.Thomson 119 22. Tbb Stobm S. Prout ;.. W.Miller 123 23. PsTCHE Sir W.Beechey, R.A W. Greatbach 133 24. Tbb Faibiks' Dab cc E. T. Parris F. bacon 143 jj. Boaden R.Hatncld 105 4 4 XVI LIST OF THE PLATES. SUBJECTS. ABTtSTS. BNOK&VBRS. ?«(• 25. ThbSrkpbbkd'sUome W. Collins, R.A. W. H. Simmons... H7 26. Thx AooNT G. Jones, R.A W. Finden 151 27. RiTiMS OH TBI NiLB A. W. CftUcott, R.A E. Finden 159 28. Thx Slbbpiwo Beauty W. Meadows S. Sangster 165 29. The Widow C. Hancock G. Pateison 175 30. Thx FisHSK BoTS J. Thompson, R.A. E. Finden » 181 31. The Plxasuxe-tixbd O. Cattermole J. Wrankmore.... 187 82. RuiHS iH Oxxxcx C. Stanfleld, R.A E. Finden 195 33. The Infant's Pratxx T. Uwins. A.R.A. E. Finden 199 34. The FuvEBAL D.WUkie, R.A W. Finden 203 35. The Chaplet OF Floweas G. Patten «. E. Finden 207 36. The Happy Age SirJ.Re}'nolds,P.R.A W. Greatbach. 213 37. Echo AVD Nabcissus G. Arnold, A. R. A A.Frecbairn 217 38. I/AftLXGEO AMD II PbmSB- i ^ ,,.^. «, ^ {D.M'Clise W. Chevalier 221 BOSO ' S9. Cupid's Assault J. Franklin W.H.Simmons... 231 iO. The LoYE Letteb H.Liverseege J.Stephenson 237 41. ThePbatertotbe ViBGiM Penry Williams C. Rolls 243 42. The Thames AT MoBTLAKE J. M.W. Turner, R.A W.J.Cooke 249 43. The Fun SEAL OF Co WLET. £. W.Cooke W.J.Cooke 253 44. CHABLESTHEFiBST TAKING % „ „ « . « , « .. < F. P. Stephanoir. J. Rolls 261 LxAYEOF HIS Family 5 45. A Child AMID Flowers ... R. Rothwell B. Sangster 265 46. Tub Disconsolate G.S.Newton, R.A E. Finden 273 «47. The Muse Imstbuctino ^ _ _ . „ . , .^ (WWyon, A.R.A J.Thomson. Youth J 281 48. Thx Sea-side Geoup J.D.Hardin;; £. Finden 285 49. The BiBTH OF Venus T. Stothard, R. A W. Greatbach 289 50. The Infant Bacchus SirM. A. Shee, P.R.A L. Stocks 293 31. THECoauET F.Stone R. Hart 297 52. Hawking R.B.Davis W. Greatbach 301 53. Wbeath OF Flowebs Miss Byrre F. W. Topham .... ,304 THE POETS AND ARTISTS OP GREAT BRITAIN B ■ > 2 GEOFFREY CHAUCER. Geoffrkt Chauckk was bom in London in the year 1328. So little is known of his early history that his biographers have left us uncertain whether his fkther was "a nobleman," "a knight," "a vintner," or '*a merchant" Indeed the only accounts of the great Poet on which any reliance can be placed are those which we gather Arom his writings. He was, doubtless, of gentle blood, and his family possessed sufficient means to obtain for him the advantages of education at Cambridge. Having improved his mind by travel, it Is conjectured that he entered at the Temple; but his after-life was chiefly occupied about the brilliant court of Edward III. ; by whose patronage and that of the ambitious John of Gaunt, he obtained profitable employ- ments, and was sent on successive embassies to Genoa and to Rome. He was made comptroller of the customs of wood — under an injunction that *' the said GeoiDrey write with his own hand his rolls touching the said office;" and also comptroller of the customs of wine— with a grant of a pitcher of wine daily; and continued to live in honourable ease, until, in consequence of his alleged connexion with the followers of Wicklifle, he fell into difficulties and disgrace, endured a long and painfull exile, a subsequent imprisonment, and suilbred much fh)m the treachery of firiends and the malice of enemies. " The bliss of his Joy that oft him mirthed was turned into gaU ;" he relinquished all connexion with courts, and amid the solitudes of Woodstock, enjoyed "the calm and solid pleasures which are the result of a wise man's reflections on the vicissitudes of human life." Here also, in his green old age, he composed the . gnatest of his immortal works. The usurpation of Henry IV. called him firom his iHkement, but the consequent "unlucky accession of business" probably hastened his end. He died on the 25th October, 1400, and was buried in Westminster Abbey, where a monument was, in after years, erected to his memory. Chaucer is described as one of the handsomest persons about the gallant court of the Flantagenets ; of a complexion fkir and beautify ; his lips very red and ftiU ; his sixe of a Just proportion ; his air very graceful and m^estic. In his youth, he was "gay and loved pleasure;" but in reviewing such of his writings as "sounen unto ain," he is reported to have exclaimed " woe is me that I cannot recall and annul these things." In maturer life, he was grave and modest even to excess, and " very bashful and reserved in company." The space to which we are necessarily limited compels us to omit all notice of his many noble poems ; except those by which he is best known to posterity— the Canter- bury Tales. These exhibit genius the rarest and most varied. It is, indeed, impossible to imagine a more perfiect work, either In design or execution. It abounds in genuine humour and true pathos ; it is flill of sublime descriptions, and displays the minutest knowledge of life and manners. Objects the most familiar and events the mott ordinary are described by the same pen that, with almost superhuman skill, depicts the passions and moves them. The characters are all distinctly drawn ; each is apart from the other, yet together they represent the classes, customs, and humours of the whole English nation of his age :— all speaking as they would naturally speak, and never for a moment forgetting the positions they are appointed to occupy in the great drama. If Italian literattire had its influence upon his taste and style, and if the origins of his themes are generally to be found in Italy — the spirit is truly uid essentially English : the touches of natural beauty were put in among our own green fields; the characters, from the highest to the lowest, are to be found within our own cities or upon our own plains. They belong to his country as much as do the banquets, the processions, and the tournaments which he commemorates in his pages as distin- guishing the chivalrous court of the third Edward and his heroic son. The peculiar characteristic of the genius of Chaucer may be described as an extra- ordinary union of the grand and the minute, of the most epic imagery with the most distinct detail. He was the first great improver and reformer of our language— the "well of English undefiled:" he wrote before printing had been discovered to pre- serve and multiply his works ; — yet even now he maintains his reputation for those "dltees and songes glade," which. In his own day, "the londe ftill-filled," and through which he *• M«de flr*t to diatjile and rayae The |uld dew dropjrs of spechv and eluquence Into oar loafv/* , 5*c# WiitN that Phcebus hLs diair or gold si Hail whirlid up the stc^rriu sky aloft, AikI ill the Bole nas entrid certainly ; When shouris sole of mju deHcendiil so ('au!4iiig the ground fele tiiiiii) and ol^, Up for to give many an wholesome air And every plain wan y cloth id fairv CHAUCER. With newe grenc ; aiid niakith smale flours To springin here and there in field and mede, — So very gode and wholesom be the shours, That ttiey renewin that was old and dedc In wintir time ; and out of every sede Springith the herbe ; so that every wight Of this seson wexith richt glad and light And I so glade of the seson swete, Was happid thus, Upon a certain night, As I lay in my bed, slepe full unmetc Was unto me; but why that I ne might Rest, I ne wist ; for there n*as erthly wight (As I suppose) had more of hertis ese Than I, for I n*ad sieknesse nor disese ; Wherfore I mervaile gretly of my self. That I so long withoutin slepe lay, — And up I rose thre houris after twelfe. About the springing of the gladsome day, And on 1 put my gear, and mine aray. And to a plesaunt grove I gan to pas. Long or the bright sonne uprisin was, In which were okis grete, streight as a line, Undir the which the grass, so freshe of hew, Was newly sprong ; and, an eight fote or nine. Every tre well fro his fellow grew, With braunchis brode, ladin with levis new. That sprongin out agen the sonne shene, — Some very rede, and some a glad light grene. Which (as me thought) was a right plesaunt sight ; And eke the birdis songis for to here. Would liave rejoisid any erthly wight. And I, that couth not yet in no manere Herin the nightingale of all the yere. Full busily herknid, with hert and ere, If I her voice perceve could any where. And, at the last, a path of litil brede, I found, that gretly had not usid be ; For it forgrowin was with grass and wede. That well unnethis a wight might it se ; CHAUCER. 5 Thought I, this path some whidir goth, pardo ; And so I folio wid ; till it me brought To a right plesauiit herbir wel ywrought, Which that benchid wai», and with turfis now Freshly turnid ; whereof the grene gras, So small, so thick, so short, so fresh of hew. That most like to grene woll, wot I, it was. The hegge also^that yedin in compas, And closid in alle the grene hcjrbere — With sycamor was set, and eglatere Writhin in fere so well and cunningly, That every braunch and lefe grew by mesure Plain as a bord, of an height by and by ; — I se nevir a thing (I you ensure) So well ydone ; for he that toke the cun? It for to make, (I trowe) did all his peine To make it pass all tho that men have seine. — And shapin was this herbir, rofe and ail, As is a pretty parlour ; and also. The hegge as thick as is a castil wall, That who that list, without, to stond or go, Thogh he wold all day pryin to and fro. He should not se if there were any wight Within or no ; but one within, well might Percevc all tho that yedin there without Into the field, that was on every side, Cover*d with com and grass, that, out of doubt, Tho one would sekin all the worlde wide, So rich a felde could not be espyde, Upon no cost, as of the quantity ; For of alle gode thing there was plenty. And as I stode, and cast aside mine eye, I was ware of the fairist medler trc That evir yet in all my life I se. As full of blossomis as it might be ; Therein a goldfinch leping pretily Fro bough to bough, and, as him list, he etc Here and there of hiiddis and flouris swete. 6 CHAUCER. And to the lierbir side was adjoyning This fairist tre, of which I have you told, And, at the last, the bird began to sing (When he had etin what he etin wold) So passing swetely, that, by many fold. It was more plesaunt than I couth devise : And whan his song was endid in this wise. The nightingale, with so mery a note, Answerid him, that alle the wode yrong So sodainly, that, as it were a sote, I stode astonied, and was, with the song, Thorow ravishid ; that, till late and long, I ne wist in what place I was, ne where ; And ay en, met bought, she song even by mine ere. Wherefore 1 waitid about busily On every side, if I hir might se ; And, at the last, 1 gan full well aspy Where she sate in a fresh grene lauryr tre. On the furthir side, evin right by me, That gave so passing a delicious smell. According to the eglatere full well. Whereof I had so inly grete plesure, — As mcthought^ I surely ravishid was Into Paradise, wherein my desire Was for to be, and no ferthir pas As for that day, and on the sote grass I sat me down ; for, as for mine entent, The birdis song was more convenient, And more plesaunt to me by many fold, Than mete or drink, or any othir thing. Thereto, the herbir was so fresh and cold. The wholsome savours eke so comforting, That (as I demid) sith the beginning Of the worlde, was nevir seen, er than, So plesaunt a ground of none erthly man. And as I sat, the birdis herkening thus, Mcthought that I herd voicis, suddainly, The most swetist, the most delicious That evir any wight, I trow trewly, CHAUCER. Herdin in ther life ; for the annony And swete accord, was in so godc miisike, That the voicis to angels most were like. At the last, out of a grove, evin by, (That was right godely and plosaunt to sight) 1 se where there came singing, lustily, A world of ladies ; but to tell aright Ther beauty grete, lyith not in my might, Ne ther array ; nevirtheless I shall Tell you a part, tho* I speke not of all : The surcots, white, of velvet well fitting They werin clad ; and the semis eche one. As it werin a mannir garnishing, Was set with emeraudis, one and one. By and by, but many a riche stone Was set on the purhlis, out of dout. Of collours, sieves, and trainis, round about ; As of grete perils, round and orient. And diamondis fine, and rubys red, And many othir stone, of which I went The namis now ; and everich on hire hede A rich fret of gold, which, withoutin drede. Was full of stately rich stonys set ; And every lady had a chapelet. On ther hedis, of braunchis fresh and grene, So wele ywrought, and so marvelously. That it was a right noble sight to sene ; Some of laurir, and some full plesauntly, Had chapelets of wodebind ; and, sadly. Some of agnus castus werin also, Chaplets fresh, but there were many of tho. That dauncid and, eke, song full sobirly ; But all they yede in maner of compace. But one there yede, in mid the company. Sole, by herself: but all followed the pace That she kept : whose hevinly figured face So plesaunt was, and hir wele shape person. That of beauty she past them everichone. f 8 CHAUCER. And more richly beseeii, by many fold, She was also, in every manir thing ; Upon hir hede, full plesaunt to bc>hold, A coron of gold rich for any king ; A braunch of agnus castas eke beriug In hir hand ; and, to my sight, trewily, She lady was of all the company. For then the nightingale, that all the day Had in the laurir sete, and did hir might The whole service to sing longing to May ; All sodainly began to take her flight; And to the lady of the Lefe forthright, She flew, and set her on hir hand softly ; Which was a thing I mervaiFd at gretly. The goldfinch, eke, that fro the medlar tre Was fled, for hete, unto the bushis cold. Unto the lady of the Flowre gan fle. And on hir bond he set him, as he wold ; And plesauntly his wingis gan to fold. And for to smg they peine them both as sore. As they had do of all the day before. And 80 these ladies rode forth a grcte pace, And all the rout of knightis eke in fere, And I, that had sene all this wondir case. Thought that I would assay, in some manere, To know fully the trouth of this mattere. And what they were that rode so plesauntly ; And when they were the herbir passed by, I drest me forth ; and happid mete, anon, A right fair lady, I do you ensure ; And she came riding by herself^ alone, Alle in white, with semblaunce full demure. I hir salued, bad hir gode avinture Mote hir befall, as I coud most humbly. And she answerid, " My doughter ! gramercy I " " Madame I '* (quoth I) " if that I durst enquere Of you, I wold, fain, of that company Wit what they be that passed by this harbere." And she ayen answerid, right frondiy : CHAUCER. 9 " My doughtir all tho, that passid hereby, In white clothing, be servants everichone. Unto the Lefe, and I myself am one." " And as for hir that croiinid is in grene, It is Flora, of these flouris goddesse. And all that here, on her awaiting, bene, — It are such folk that lovid idlenesse. And not delite in no kind besinesse But for to hunt, and hawke, and ])ley in medes, And many othir such like idle dedes." * # « « # For now I am ascertained thoroughly Of every thing I desirid to knowe. I am right glad that I have said, sothly. Ought to your plesure, if ye Mill me trow. (Quod she ay en.) ** But to whom do ye owe Your service, and which woUin ye honour (Pray tell me) this year, the Lefe or the Flour?" " Madam I " (quod I) " although I lest worthy. Unto the Leie I ow mine observauuce." " That is," (quod she) " right well done, certainly. And I pray God to honour you advance, And kepe you fro the wickid remembraiincc Of Malebouch, and all his cruiltie ; And all that gode and well conditioned be. " For here I may no lengir now abide, But I must follow the grete company That ye may se yondir before you ride." And forthwith, as I couth, most humily I toke my leve of hir. And she gan hie After them as fast a<* evir she might. And I drow homeward, for it was nigh night. c »wk .. AAi. kuw VII c« t«uM cuiu A ruyans. i ney arc an traiiKianons, or rather adaptatlona, from the Italian and French. A ft'W extracts may serve to satisfy the reader. A perusal of any one of his pnxluctions would scarcely compensate for the necessar}' lalwur. He is now almost forgotten: although in his own day his popubrity was unl)ounded, and his fame continued unimpaired for nearly two centuries. It is somewhat singuLar that an ajre which had received and read the jwems of Geolfrey Chaucer, should have so devoutly admired tlie writings of John Lydgate : for although by no nu'ans " the prosaic and drivelling monk." or the "stupid poetaster," which Fome recent anno- tators have described him, he is, compared with his great predecessor, as a dull, gloomy and unproductive day, to a spring morning of alternate sun and shower. His works were originally printed by Caxton, Tliinne and IMnson; and although many of them were written in early life, he appears not to have attained his highest eminence until nearly sixty years old. After Lydgate, if wc except Hawes and Skelton, who whimsically but accurately described his own rhymes as Tnttrretl nnrt j-a •' i<, Uiidrly raln-l)( aim, Kuaty auil iiiiMli-v.ilrn," the history of our poetry is that of a barren plain, until we receive the greeting of those twin-brothers in fame and affection— Wy at and Surrey: and are led by them into a garden, limited indeed in extent, but of exceeding richness and beauty. The Muse appears meanwhile to have quitted the South and to have sojourned, for a time, in the cold North. James the First, it is true, can scarcely be set aside from the list of English Foets— inasmuch as in England he accjuired the "lore" in which ho so greatly excelled, but Scotland, after this period, contended for superiority, and attained it. And sayng after on the next nyglit Whyle they slepte at thir Icxigyng place, Came an Aungrl, appearyng with grete light. And wanted them that they laought ne trace By Herodes, but that they should pace Witliouten tarrying, in ol the haate they may. To her kyugdome by another wave. The Faders voyce, as tlorkes oft eudyte. Cam down to crthe that men myght here ; And lyke a dove witli fayr federis whyte. The Holy Ghoost alito dyd a]ippre, And Crest Jesu the Fadem soup entere, This day apperyng in our mortal kynde, Was of Saynt John baptyat as I fynde. ]() JOHN LYD(iATK. JouH LTDOATS^thc Moiik of Bury— was a native of Sufiblk. and horn, it Is supposed, In 1S75. He was educated at Oxford, and having travelled in lYancc and Italy, acquired such complete mastery over the lan^^uages of those countries, that ho was induced to open a school -in his monastery — the Benedictine Abl)cy of St. Edmund's fiury. He died probably in 14G1 ; having enjoyed during liis long life a high reputation, and " found fiEivour" in the sight of kings and people. A list of his works would be a very long catalogue of publications in every shape and on every subject to which poetry can bo made subservient — ballads, hymns, humorous tales, allegories, romances, legends, chronicles, histories, lives of saints, and records of heroes, masques for kings, may -games for lord mayors, pageants for holy festivals, carols for coronations, and " disguisings " for trades-companies:— "cart-loads" of rubbish, according to; a modern critic, who had more learning than taste, and who has enumerated his works, genuine and supposititious, to the almost incredible number of two hundred and fifty-one. He was not only a poet, but a skilAil rhetorician, au astronomer, a theologian, a geometrician, and a philosopher — and in these various arts as well as those of composition and versification, instructed the ions of the nobility and the monastic students. Although the immediate successor— indeed the contemporary— of Chaucer, he is infinitely below the immortal poet in strength of intellect, richness of C&ncy, and purity of style : yet he is the only writer of his age, if we except Gower, to whom the English language is indebted for the maintenance of its vigour. His poetry is hea\7 and difiUse, and for the most part languid and elaborately tedious ; — a great stoiy he compares to a great oak, which is not to be attacked with a single stroke, but by "a longe processe;" and he disclaims the notion of composing in "a stile briefe and compendious." Nevertheless, it would be easy to find among his lengthened and numerous productions passages of exceeding beauty, descriptions natural and true, characters finely conceived and ably developed, and verse smooth, even to elegance. His principal poems are *'the Fall of Princes" — which imdoubtedly suggested to Sackville the idea of " the Mlrrour for Magistrates;" "the Story of Thebes," written as a continuation of the Canterbury Tales of " his Master;" " the Lyfe of our Lady;" and " the Boke of Troy, being the onely trewe and syncere Chronicle of the Warres betwixt the Grecians and Troyans." They arc all translations, or rather adaptations, flrom the Italian and French. A few extracts may serve to satisfy the reader. A perusal of any one of hia productions would scarcely compensate for the necessary labour. He is now almost foi^otten; although in his own day his popularity was unbounded, and his fame continued unimpaired for nearly two centuries. It is somewhat singular that an age which had received and read the poems of Geoflrey Chaucer, should have io devoutly admired the writings of John Lydgate ; for although by no means " the prosaic and drivelling monk," or the " stupid poetaster," which some recent anno- tators have described him, he is, compared with his great predecessor, as a dull, gloomy and unproductive day, to a spring morning of alternate sun and shower. His works were originally printed by Caxton, Thinne and Pinson ; and although many of them were written in early life, he appears not to have attained tils highest eminence untU nearly sixty years old. After Lydgate, if we except Hawes and Skelton, who whimsically but accurately described his own rhjrmes as "MBKed. Tattered and i»nvA, Radeljr rain-bcatoB, Hasty aad moth-eaten," the history of our poetry is that of a barren plain, until we receive the greeting of those twin-brothers in fame and affection— Wyat and Surrey ; and are led by them into a ganien, limited indeed in extent, but of exceeding richness and beauty. The Muse appears meanwhile to have quitted the South and to have sojourned, for a time, in the cold North. James the First, it is true, can scarcely be set aside fh>m the list of English Poets— Inasmuch as in England he acquired the " lore " in which he so greatly excelled, but Scotland, after this period, contended for superiority, and attained it. LYDGATE. \ti And suddenly , when the soote is past, She of custome can give him a cast. For to conclude falsely in the fine, Of bitter eysell and of eager wine ; And corrosives that fret and pierce deep ; And narcotics that cause men to sleep. MEUEA. For as he sat at meat tho in that tide, Her father next, and Jason by her side, All suddenly her fresh and rosen hue Full ofte-tirae gan changen and renew, An hundred sithes in a little space. For now, the bloode from her goodly face Unto her heart unwarely gan avale : And therewithal she waxeth dead and pale. And eft anon (who thereto gan take heed ) Her hue returneth into goodly red : But still among, t' embellish hor colour, The rose was meynt aye with the lily tiower ; And though the rose some dele gan to pace, Yet still the lily bideth in his place, Till nature made them eft again to meet. For now she brent, and now she gan to cold. And aye the more that she gan behold This Jason young, the more she gan desire To look on him ; so was she set a-fire With his beautd, and his semelyncss, And every thing she inly gan impress. What that she sawe, both in mind and thought She all imprinteth, and forgetteth nought. For she cousidereth every circumstance. Both of his port and his governance ; His sunnish hair, crisped like gold wire. His knightly look, and his manly cheer. 14 JAiMES THE FIRST. Jam El THC First, King of Scotland, was the second son of Robert the Third, and was bom in 1395. In 1405, while on his way to France, the ship in which he sailed was taken by an English squadron, and the young Prince, with a numerous train of attendants, were sent to London as prisoners of war. Notwithstanding that a peace between the two countries was concluded very soon after his capture, he was detained In captivity, chiefly, it Is said, in consequence of the intrigues of his uncle, the Duke of Albany, who thus held, during his life, the Regency of Scotland. Henry the Fourth, however, although he kept him in confinement, gave him every advantage it was pos- sible for him to bestow. Under apt and skilful tutelage he became a proficient in all the accomplishments of the age, — excelling in music, oratory, jurisprudence, phi- losophy, and poetry, and attaining to unrivalled exceUenoe in all manly sports. His prison became, therefore, his study; he had leisure to cultivate his mind; and gave such early prooiii of its honourable bias, that King Henry is said to have exclaimed, *' Happy shall be the subjects of a king who, in his tender years, shows himself to be endowed with so much wisdom." He subsequently fought in France, imder the banner of England. He continued eighteen years in durance ; but, during his seclusion at Windsor Castle, his thraldom was " made light" by his intimacy with the Lady Jane Beaufort, daughter of the Duke of Somerset, to whom he was subsequently married, in I4S4, and in whose praise he composed his principal poem, " The King's Quair." Upon the death of his uncle, the Scottish nobility turned their attention towards their captive sovereign, and entered into serious negociations for the purchase of his liberty. A heavy ransom having been exacted, the king took possession of his throne, and after a reign of twelve years, honourable to himself and beneficial to his country, he perished by the hands of assassins, at Perth, in 1437. Besides " The King's Quair"— m oblivion. The MS. copy bears the following title,—" The Quair, maid be King James of Scotland, the first, callit the King's Quair. Maid qn his Ma was in England." The Poem is an all^^ry, to commemorate his love for the Lady Jane, the mistress of his heart, who is described by the historians of the time as of exceeding beauty and goodness. The Poet dreams a dream, and relates his early misfortunes, his long captivity, and the purity, constancy, and happy issue of his love, together with the incident that first called it into existence. Having heard a bell, that bids him " Tell on man, quat the befell," he at once commences, and proceeds with his task : — " Hi* pen in band Im take And made a -|- and thas bcfoath hia bake." He first relates his earlier adventures, then details the circumstances which led to his acquaintance with the Lady Jane: after which he is transiwrtcd to the sphere of Love, conducted to the palace of Minerva, and goes a Journey in quest of Fortune, untU at length a Turtle Dove brings him "newts glad," which he reads with " hertfuU gladnesse." The long dayrti and the nyghtes ckp, I woleing a true Chronicle Historic of tlie untimely falles of such unfortunate Princes and Men of Note as have happened since the first entrance of Brute into this island, until this our age ;" it was added to, from time to time, by various contributors, and an edition published in 1610, contains eighty-six lives. These poems of Sackville are to the highest degree vigorous and fine. The versi- fication is smooth and harmonious ; the shadowy inhabitants of Aveme are pictured with fearl^ reality, strong feeling, and deep interest;— and it is surmised that they awakened the imagination of Spenser, who has scarcely surpassed his predecessor in tlic grander attributes by which the poet is distinguished. :>ACKV1LI.K. The wrathf'ull winter j)n>cliinj;c on a pace, With hlustrinj; bla.stos had al vhanMl the trecn, AihI oUW Satuniiis with his frosty face With chilling colde had jjcarst the tcnchr green . The mantels rent, wherein enwrajjiu.'d been The gladsoin groves that nowe lave overthrowen. The tapets torne, and every blonie down hlowen The sovh; that i'r>t so seemly was to seen, Was all (h*>i)oylene: And up it comes in hast much more than speede. II .50 GASCOIGNE. There did I see a wofull worke begonne, Which now (even now) doth make my hart to bleede. Some made such hast that in the boate they wonne, Before it was above the hatches brought Straunge tale to tell, what hast some men shall make To find their death before the same be sought Some twixt the boate and shippe their bane do take, Both drownd and slayne with braynes for hast crusht out And eare the boate farre from our sight was gon, The wave so wrought, that they (which thought to flee And 80 to scape) with waves were overronne. Lo kow he strives in vain that strives with God I For there we lost the flowre of the band, And of our crew full twentie soules and odde. The Sea sucks up, whils we on hatches stand In smarting feare to feele that selfe same rodde. THE ARRAIGNMENT OF A LOVER. At Beautyes barre as I dyd stande, When false suspect accused mee, George (quod the Judge) holde up thy hande. Thou art arraignde of Flatterye : Tell therefore howe thou wylte bee tryde : Whose judgement here wylt thou abyde ? My Lorde (quod I) this Lady here, Whome I esteeme above the rest, Doth knowe my guilte if any were : Wherefore hir doome shall please me best Let hir bee Judge and Jurour boathe, To trye mee guiltlesse by myne oathe. Quod Beautie, no, it iitteth not A Prince hir selfe to judge the cause : Wyll is our Justice well you wot. Appointed to discusse our Lawes : If you wyll guiltlesse seeme to goe, God and your countrey quitte you so. GASCOIGNE. 51 Then Crafte the cryer cal'd a quest, Of whome was Falshoode formost feere, A pack of pickethankes were the rest, Which came false witnesse for to beare, The Jurye suche, the Judge unjust, Sentence was sayde I should be trust * Jelous the Jayler bound mee fast, To heare the verdite of the by II, George (quod the Judge) nowe thou art cast. Thou must goe hence to heavie hill. And there be hangde all bye the head, God rest thy soule when thou art dead. Downe fell I then upon my knee, All flatte before Dame Beauties face, And cryed, good Ladye pardon mee, Which here appeale unto your grace*, You knowe if I have beene untrue, It was in too much praysing you. And though this Judge doe make suche haste. To shead with shame my guiltlesse blood : Yet let your pittie first bee plaste, To save the man that meant you good. So shall you she we your selfe a Queene, And I maye bee your servaunt scene. (Quod Beautie) well: bicause I guesse. What thou dost meane hencefoorth to bee. Although thy faultes deserve no lesse, Than Justice here hath judged thee, Wylt thou be bounde to stynte all strife, And be true prisoner all thy lyfe ? Yea Madame (quod I) that I shall, Loe Fayth and Trueth my suerties : Why then (quod shee) come when I call, I aske no better warrantise. Thus am I Beauties bounden thrall. At hir commaunde when shee doth call. 52 mii WALTER RALEIGH. Sift Waltkk Ralkioh wu born at Hayet-Fanny near East Buddeigli, Devon, in 1552. In 1568, he entered at Oriel College, Oxford, and afterwards at the Middle Temple. But the times were such as to call for action rather than thought; the pur- suits of Alma Mater, and the sober study of the law, were soon deserted ; the genius of Raleigh eagerly sought and foimd a more accessible road to Cune. He fought during six years, as a volunteer, under the Protestant banner, in France; subsequently served a campaign in the Netherlands ; acquired reputation for skill and courage in Ireland, during the rebellion of 1580; and, on his return to England, obtained, " through a piece of gallantry," the favour of Queen Elisabeth, by whom he was knitted, and raised to high honours, *' having gotten the Queen's ear in a trice," and alarmed the Jealousy of the favourite, Leicester. Yet, '* far flrom sucking in the luxuries and vanities of a court, while he enjoyed the smile of it, both his thoughts and his purse were employed in preparations to leave It for a very different course of life.** The various chances and changes of his eventftil career — ^hls attempt to colonise Virginia, his participation in the destruction of the " invincible** Armada, his expe- dition against Panama, his capture of San Joseph, his parliamentary conduct as knight of the shire for his native county, his co-operation in the taking of Cadiz, his share in " the Island Voyage," his serious or absurd contests with the Earl of Essex, his appointments to profitable places by the Queen, his disgrace under the reign of her successor, his trial and condemnation upon an ill-sustained charge of high treason, his imprisonment of fifteen wearisome years, his subsequent disastrous voyage to Guiana, his return, and his unjust execution, under his old and almost forgotten sentence — are matters at which we can but, in passing, glance. The mention of them supplies an outline of the ftill life of one who was distinguished as " the noble and valorous knight," a man of astonishing energy, who combined almost every variety of talent, whose acquirements in science were marvellous, whose heroic courage and indomitable perseverance are almost without parallel, whose enterprise was unchecked by difficulties and unchilled by failure, and who, while excelling in feats of arms and in strength of counsel, surpassed also in those arts which are the more exclusive produce of retirement and peace,— history, oratory, philosophy, politics, and poetry. His death took place on the 29th October, 1618. Raleigh is described as always making a very elegant appearance, both in splendor of attire and politeness of address ; as " having a good presence, a handsome and well« compacted person, a strong natural wit and a better judgment, with a bold and plausi- ble tongue, whereby he could set out his parts to the best advantage." The poetical remains of Sir Walter Raleigh are few, but they suffice to show how greatly he could have excelled in this art of peace, had circumstances enabled him, and inclination prompted him, to devote to it the energies of his capacious mind. In his minor writings, as in his stupendous plans, he was original, bold, and adventurous; and although it is difficult, according to old Puttenham, ** to find out and make public his doings" — many poems being attributed to him upon unsatisfactory evidence — there is proof enough in those which are undoubtedly his, to sustain a very high reputation. Spenser, his personal friend, speaking of his poetry, styles him "the summer nightingale," who was " Himself as skilftil in that art as any." Among other specimens, we have inseried one to which has been given the several titles of •• the Lye," '« the Soul's Errand," and " the Soul's Farewell." It is doubtful whether Raleigh was really the writer of it ; it is, at least, certain tliat the tradition is erroneous which describes it as having been " penned down " by him on the night before his execution, as it was printed in Davison's "Poetical Rhapsodic " ten years previous to that event. Mr. Ellis assigns it to Joshua Sylvester, " until a more authorised claimant shall appear;" but it is so vastly superior to the known compositions of this author, that we are inclined to withhold from him the merit of having produced it. and prefer the authority of the collector of " Ancient Reliques," who assigns it to Raleigh, and surmises that it might have been written in 1603, after his condemnation, when he was in hourly anticipation of death. The poem is so transcendently vigorous, that we think few of his contemporaries could have produced it ; the style, moreover, greatly resembles that of Raleigh, — a blending of nuUure reflection, forcible thought, and striking metaphor. Sweet violets, Love's paradise, that spread Your gracious odours, which you couched beare Within your palie faces. Upon the gentle wing of some calme breathing winde, That playes amidst the plain e. If by the favour of propitious starres you gtune Such grace as in my ladie's bosome place to finde. Be proud to touch tlioae places ! And when her warmth your tnoysture forth doth wrure, Whereby her daintie parts are sweetly fed, Your honours of the flowrie meades I prayi TS**T»' 1 54 UALEIGII. You pretty daughters of the earth and sunne, With milde and seemely breathing straite display My bitter sighs, that have my hart undone ! Vennillion roses, that with new dayes rise, Display your crimson folds fresh looking faire, Whose radiant bright disgraces The rich adorned rayes of roseate rising morne ! Ah, if her yirgin*s hand Do pluck your purse, ere Phoebus view the land. And vaile your gracious pompe hi lovely Nature's scome, If chaunce my mistresse traces Fast by your flowers to take the Sommer's ayre. Then wofuU blushing tempt her glorious eyes To spread tlieir tearcs, Adonis' death niportiug, And tell Love's torments, sorrowing for her friend. Whose drops of bloud, within your leaves consorting, Report fair Venus* moancs to have no end I Then may Remorse, in pittying of my smart, Drie up my teares, and dwell within her hart ! THE SHRPHEARD'S DESCRIPTION OF HAE. MKLir.£t'8. Shepheakd, what's Love, I pray tliee tell? FAVSTUS. It is that fountaine, and tliat well, Where pleasure and repentance dwell : It is, perhaps, that sauueing b(?ll, That toules all into lieaven or hell : And this is Love, as I heard tell. MELinEirS. Yet what is Love, I j)ri'thee say ? VAl'IiTVS. It is a worke on holy-day, It is December match'd with May, W^hen lustie bloods in fresh aray Heare ten months after of the play : And this is Love, as I heare say. RALEIGH. 55 MRLIBRVt. Yet what is Love, good Shepheard saine ? FAU8TUS. It is a sun-shine mixt with raine ; It is a tooth-ach ; or like paine : It b a game, where none doth gaine. The lass saith no, and would full faine : And this is Love, as I heare saine. MfCLIRF.US. Yet, Shepheard, what is Love, I pray ? FAUSTDS. It is a yea, it is a nay, A pretty kind of sporting fray. It is a thing will soone away ; Then Nimphs take Vantage while ye may ; And this is Love, an I heare say. MBLIBKU8, Yet what is Love, good Shepheard show ? FAUITUa. A thing that creepes, it cannot goe ; A prize that passeth to and fro, A thing for one, a thing for moe, And he that prooves shall find it so, And, Shepheard, this is Love I trow. THE 8ILBNT LOVER. Passions are likened best to floods and streames; The shallow murmur, but the deepe are dumb. So, when affections yield discourse, it seems The bottom is but shallow whence they come : They that are rich in words must needs discover. They are but poor in that which makes a lover. 56 RALEIGH. Wrong not, sweet mistresse of my heart, The merit of true passion, With thinking that he feels no smart. Who sues for no compassion ! Since, if my plaints were not t* approve The conquest of thy beautie, It comes not from defect of love, But fear t' exceed my dutie. For, knowing that I sue to serve A sainte of such perfection. As all desire, but none deserve A place in her affection, I rather choose to want reliefe Than venture the revealing : Where glory recommends the griefe, Despaire disdains the healing ! Thus those desires that boil so high In any mortal lover. When Reason cannot make them die. Discretion them must cover. Yet when Discretion doth bereave The plaintes that I should utter. Then your Discretion may perceive That Silence is a Suitor. Silence in Love bewrays more woe Than words, though nere so witty ; A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pitty I Then wrong not, dearest to my heart I My love for secret passion ; He smarteth most that hides his smart, And sues for no compassion I ^ RALEIGH. » 51 A VISION UPON THE KAIRY QUEEN. Methought I saw the grave, where Laura lay Within that temple, where the vestal Haine Was wont to burn ; and, passing by that way, To see that buried dust of living fame, Whose tomb fair Love, and fairer Virtue kept : All suddenly I saw the Fairy Queen ; At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept. And, from thenceforth, those Graces were not seen ; For they this Queen attended ; in whose stead Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hoarse : Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed, And groans of buried ghosts tlie heavens did pierce : Where Homer's spright did tremble all for grief, And curs'd the access of that col(?stial thief I :UV. MOilT L'-ElrOilF. Hl.> UKATH. Even such is Time, that takes on trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with age and dust ; Who in the dark and silent grave, When we have wandered all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days ! But from this earth, this grave, this dust. My God shall raise me up, I trust THE LYK. GoE, soule, the bodies guest, Upon a thankelesse arrant ; Feare not to touche the best, The truth shall be thy warrant Goe, since 1 needs must dye. And give the world the lye. I 58 RALEIGH. Goc, toll the court it glowes And shines like rotten wood ; Goe, tell the church it showes What's good, and doth no good ; If church and court reply, Then give them both the lye. Tell potentates they live Acting by others actions ; Not lov'd unlesse they give, Not strong but by their factions ; If potentates reply, Give potentates the lye. Tell men of high condition, That rule affairs of state, Their purpose is ambition, Their practise onely hate ; And if they once reply, Then give them all the lye. Tell them that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who in their greatest cost Seek nothing but commending ; And if they make reply. Spare not to give the lye. Tell zeale, it lacks devotion ; Tell love, it is but lust ; Tell time, it is but motion ; Tell flesh, it is but dust ; And wish them not reply. For thou must give the lye. Tell age, it daily wasteth ; Tell honour, how it alters ; Tell beauty, how she blasteth ; Tell favour, how she falters ; And as they shall reply. Give each of them the lye. Tell wit, how much it wrangles In tickle points of nicenesse ; RALEIGH. 59 Tell wisedomey she entangles Herselfe in over-wisenesse ; And if they do reply Straight give them both the lye. Tell physicke of her boldnesse ; Tell skill, it is pretension ; Tell charity of coldnesse ; Tell law, it is contention ; And as they yield reply, So give them still the lye. Tell fortune of her blindnesse ; Tell Nature of decay ; Tell friendship of unkindnesse ; Tell justice of d(»lay ; And if they dare reply, Then give them all tlie lye. Tell arts, they have no soundnesse, But vary by esteeming ; Tell schooles they want profoundnesse ; And stand too much on seeming ; If arts and schooles reply. Give arts and schooles the lye. Tell faith, it's fled tlie citic ; Tell how the country erreth ; Tell, manhood shakes off pitie. Tell, vertue least preferreth ; And, if they do reply. Spare not to give the lye. So, when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, cd in pleasure, all it sends forth may rank in the very first order of refinement, and moral truth. If a fault could be urged, indeed, against his great poem, it would be perhaps that its moral design is even obtrusive. SI'KNSJ'J:.. In which aiiia/cmeiit when the iniscn^nuiit Penri'ivcid him to waver wcako ami iVaiUs Whiles trembling liorror did his cuiiseienee daiiiii, And hellish anguish did his soule assaile ; To drive him to despaire, and quite to quaile, Hce Bhewd him painted in a table plainc; The damned ghosts, that doe in torments waile, And thousand feends, that doe them endh^sM^ paine With fire and brimstone, wiiich for ever shall remain<'. r (>'2 M'KNSEH. Tli(* sight wluMVof so throughly liini disiiiaid. That nought but drath hi'tbrc his c'i(»s \w saw, An(i evtT burning wrath bt^fbre him laid, By riglitc'ous sontenci' ot'th' Alniightirs hiw. Thru gan tiir villein him to overcraw, And briuight unto him swords, ro])es, poison, fin*, And all that might him to perdition draw ; And bad him choose, what death he wouhl (h'sire: For death was dew to him, that had provokt (iods ivv Hut, whenas none of them he saw him take. He to him raught a dagger sharpe and keene, And gave it him in hand : his haiul did (juake And trend >le like a leafe of aspin grcene. And troubled blood through his pale face was set-ne To come and goe, with tidings from the heart, As it a ronning messenger had Ix^ene. At last, resolvM to work his finall smart, \lv lifted up his hand, that back(> againe did start. Which whenas Una saw, through every vaine The crudled cold ran to her well of life. As in a swowne : but, soone reliv'd againe. Out of his hand she snatcht the cursed knife, And threw it to the ground, enraged rife, And to him said ; " Fie, fie, faint hearted knight. What meanest thou by this reprochfull strife r Is this the battaile, which thou vauntst to tight With that tire-mouthed dragon, horribh; and 1)right ? ** Come ; come away, fraile, feeble, fleshly wiglit, Ne let vaine words bewitch thy many hart, Ne divelish thoughts dismay thy constant spright : In heavenly mercies hast thou not a part? Why shouhlht thou then despeire, tliat chosen art? W' here justice growes, there grows eke greater grace. The which doth quench the brond of hellish smart. And that accurst hand-writing doth deface : Arise, sir Knight ; arise, and leave this cursed place." * * * m ^■ Thence passing forth, they shortly doe arryve Whereas the Bowre of Blisse was situate ; A place pickt out by choyce of best alyve, SPENSER. 63 That natures workc by art can imitate : In which whatever in this worldly state Is sweete and pleasing unto living sense, Or that may dayntest fantasy aggrate, Was poured forth with plentifull disponco, And made there to abound with lavish aftlut'iico. Goodly it was enclosed rownd about, As well their entred guestes to keep within, As those unruly beasts to hold without ; Yet was the fence thereof but weake and thin ; Nought feard their force that fortilag(» to win, But Wisedomes powro, and Teni])craunces might, By which the mightiest things effbrced bin : And eke the gate was wrought of substauncc light. Rather for pleasure then for batter}' or fight. Yt framed was of precious y vory. That seemd a worke of admirable witt ; And therein all the famous history Of lason and Medsea was ywritt ; Her mighty charmcs, her furious loving fitt ; His goodly conquest of the golden fleecer, His fabed fayth, and love too lightly flitt ; The wondred Argo, which in venturous peece First through the Euxine seas bore all the flowr of Greece. Ye might have seene the frothy billowes fry Under the ship as thorough them she went, That seemd the waves were into yvory. Or yvory into the waves were sent ; And otherwhere the snowy substaunce sprent With vermeil, like the boyes blood therein shed, A piteous spectacle did represent ; And otherwhiles with gold besprinkeled Yt seemd th' enchaunted flame, which did Crcusa wed. All this and more might in that goodly gate Be red, that ever open stood to all Which thether came : but in the porch there sate A comely personage of stature tall, And semblaunce pleasing, more than naturall, That travellers to him seemd to entize ; His looser garment to the ground did fall, 64 SPENSER. And flew about his heelcs in wanton wizo, Not fitt for speedy pace or manly ex(;rcize. They in that place him Genius did call : Not that celestiall powre, to whom the care Of life, and generation of all That lives, perteines in charge particulare, Who wondrous things concerning our welfare, And straunge phaiitomes doth lett us ofte foresee, And ofte of secret ills bids us beware : That is our selfe, whom though we do not see. Yet each doth in himselfe it well perceive to bee : Therefore a god him sage Antiquity Did wisely make, and good Agdistes call : But this same was to that quite contrary. The foe of life, that good envyes to all. That secretly doth us procure to fall Through guilcfuU semblants, which he makes us see : He of this gardin had the governall. And Pleasures porter was devizd to bee, Holding a staffe in hand for more formalitee. With divers flowres he daintily was deckt, And strowed rownd about ; and by his side A mighty mazer bowle of wine was sett, As if it had to him bene sacrifide ; Wherewith all new-come guests be gratyfide : So did he eke sir Guyon passing by ; But he his ydle curtesie deiide. And overthrew his bowle disdainfully. And broke his staffe, with which he charmed semblants sly. Thus being entred, they behold arownd A large and spacious plaine, on every side Strowed with pleasauns ; whose fayre grassy grownd Mantled with greene, and goodly beautifide With all the ornaments of Floraes pride. Wherewith her mother Art, as halfe in scorne Of niggard Nature, like a pompous bride Did decke her, and too lavishly adome, When forth from virgin bowre she comes in th* early mome. SPEN8KR. (55 Much woiidrod Guyon at the fay re aj;])6(;t Of that sweet place, yet sutfred no delight To sincke into his sence, nor mind affect ; But passed forth, and lookt still forward riglit, Br}'dling his will and maystering his might : Till that he came unto another gate ; No gate, but like one, being goodly dight With bowes and braunches, which did broad dilate Their clasping armes in wanton wreathings intricate : So fashioned a porch with rare device, Archt over head with an embracing vine. Whose bounches hanging downe seemd to entice All passers-by to taste tlieir lushious wine, And did themselves into their liands incline. As freely offering to be gatliered ; Some deepe empurpled as the hyacine. Some as the rubine laughing sweetely red, Some like faire emeraudes, not yet well ripened : And them amongst some were of burnisht gold, So made by art to beautify the rest, Which did themselves emongst the leaves enfold. As lurking from the vew of covetous guest. That the weake boughes with so rich load opprest Did bow adowne as overburdened. Under that porch a comely dame did rest Clad in fayre weedes but fowle disordered. And garments loose that seemd unmeet for woman hed : In her left hand a cup of gold she held, And with her right the riper fruit did reach. Whose sappy liquor, that with fulnesse sweld. Into her cup she scruzd with daintie breacli Of her fine fingers, without fowle empeach, That 80 faire winepresse made the wine more sweet : Thereof she usd to give to drinke to each, WTiom passing by she happened to meet : It was her guise all straungers goodly so to greet. So she to Guyon offred it to tast ; Who, taking it out of her tender hon£U. And with the liquor staiued all the lond : Whereat Excesse cxceedinly was wroth, Yet no'te the same amend, ne yet withstond, But suffered him to passe, all were she loth ; Who, nought regarding her displeasure, forward goth. There the most daintie paradise on ground Itselfe doth offer to liis sober eye, In which all pleasures plenteously abownd^ And none does others happinesse envye ; The painted flowres ; the trees upshooting hye ; The dales for shade ; the hilles for breathing space ; The trembling groves ; the christall running by ; And, that which all faire workes doth most aggraccs The art, which all that wrought, appeared in no })laco. One would have thought (so cunningly the rude And scorned partes were mingled with the fine), That Nature had for wantonesse ensude Art, and that Art at Nature did repine ; So striving each th* other to undermine, Each did the others worke more beautify ; So differing both in willes agreed in fine : So all agreed, through sweete diversity, This g£U^din to adome with all variety. And in the midst of all a fountaine stood. Of richest substance that on Earth might bee. So pure and shiny that the silver flood llirough every channell running one might see ; Most goodly it with curious ymageree Was over-wrought, and shapes of naked boyes, Of which some seemd with lively joUitee To fly about, playing their wanton toyes, Whylest others did themselves embay in liquid joyes. And over all of purest gold was spred A trayle of yvie in his native hew : For the rich metall was so coloured, That wight, who did not well avis'd it vew, Would surely deeme it to bee yvie trew ; Low his lascivious armes adown did creepe. That themselves dipping in the silver dew Their fleecy flowres they fearefully did steepe. Which drops of christall seemd for wantones to weep. SPENSER. 67 Infinit streames continually did well Out of this fountains, sweet and faire to see, The which into an ample laver fell, And shortly grew to so great quantitie, That like a litle lake it seemd to bee, Whose depth exceeded not three cubits hight, That through the waves one might the bottom see, All pav*d beneath with jaspar shining bright. That seemd the fountaine in that sea did sayle upright. And all the margent round about was sett With shady laurell trees, thence to defend The sunny beames which on the billowes bett, And those which therein bathed mote offend. As Guyon hapned by the same to wend, Two naked damzelles he therein espyde. Which therein bathing seemed to contend And wrestle wantonly, ne car d to hyde TTieir dainty partes from vew of any which them eyd. Sometimes the one would lift the other quight Above the waters, and then downe againe Her plong, as over-maystered by might. Where both awhile would covered reraaine. And each the other from to rise restraine ; TTie whiles their snowy limbes, as through a vele, So through the christall waves appeared plaine : Then suddeinly both would themselves unhele, And th* amorous sweet spoiles to greedy eyes revele. As that faire starre, the messenger of morne, His deawy face out of the sea doth reare : Or as the Cyprian goddesse, newly borne Of th' ocean's fruitfuU froth, did first appeare : Such seemed they, and so their yellow heare Christalline humor dropped downe apace. Whom such when Guyon saw, he drew him neare, And somewhat gan relent his earnest pace ; His stubbome brest gan secret pleasaunce to embrace. The wanton maidens him espying, stood Gazing awhile at his unwonted guise ; Then th' one herselfe low ducked in the flood, Abasht that her a straunger did avise : But th' other rather higher did arise, 68 SPENSER. And her two lilly paps aloft dlsplayd, And all, that might his melting hart entyse To her delights, she unto him bewrayd ; The rest, hidd underneath, him more desirous made. With that the other likewise up arose. And her faire lockes, which formerly were bownd Up in one knott, she low adowne did lose, Which flowing long and thick her cloth'd arownd, And th* yvorie in golden mantle gownd : So that faire spectacle from him was reft. Yet that which reft it no lesse faire was fownd : So hidd in lockes and waves from lookers thefl, Nought but her lovely face she for his looking left. Withall she laughed, and she blusht withall. That blushing to her laughter gave more grace, And laughter to her blushing, as did fall. Now when tliey spyde the knight to slacke his pace Them to behold, and in his sparkling face Tiie secrete signs of kindled lust appeare, Their wanton merriments they did encreace, And to him beckned to approch more neare, And shewd him many siglits that corage cold could reare. # « # # # Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound. Of all that mote delight a daintie eare. Such as attonce might not on living ground, Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere : Right hard it was for wight which did it heare. To read what manner musicke that mote bee ; For all that pleasing is to living eare Was there consorted in one harmonee ; Birdes, voices, instruments, windes, waters, all agree : The joyous birdes, shrouded in chearefull shade. Their notes unto the voice attempred sweet ; Th* angelicall soft trembling voyces made To th* instruments divine respondence meet ; The silver-sounding instruments did meet With the base murnmre of the waters fall ; The waters fall with difference discreet, Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call ; The gentle warbling wind low answered to all. SPENSER. 69 There, whence that musick seemed heard to bee, Was the faire witch herselfe now solacing With a new lover, whom, through sorceree And witchcraft, she from farre did thether bring : There she had him now laid a slombering In secret shade after long wanton joyes ; Whilst round about them pleasauntly did sing Many faire ladies and lascivious boyes, That ever mixt their song with light licentious toyes. And all that while right over him she hong With her false eyes fast fixed in his sight, As seeking medicine whence she was stong. Or greedily depasturing delight ; And oft inclining downe with kisses light. For feare of waking him, his lips bedewd. And through his humid eyes did sucke his spright, Quite molten into lust and pleasure lewd ; Wherewith she sighed soft, as if his case she rewd. The whiles some one did chaunt this lovely lay ; " Ah I see, whoso fayre thing doest faine to see, In springing flowre the image of thy day I Ah ! see the virgin rose, how sweetly shee Doth first peepe foorth with bashfuU modestee. That fairer seemes the lesse ye see her may ! Lo I see scone after how more bold and free Her bared bosome she doth broad display ! Lo I see scone after how she fades and falls away ! ** So passeth, in the passing of a day. Of mortall life the leafe, the bud, the flowre ; Ne more doth florish after first decay, That earst was sought to deck both bed and bowre Of many a lady and many a paramowre ! Gather therefore the rose whilest yet is prime, For soone comes age that will her pride deflowre : Gather the rose of love whilest yet is time, Whilest loving thou mayst loved be with equall crime." 70 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. Sir Phi lit Sidney, the ddeat »on of Sir Henry Sidney, was bom on the 29th of November, 1554, at Peushurst, in Kent. His life was one scene of romance from its commencement to its close. His early years were spent in travel, and on his return he was married to the daughter of Sir Francis Walsingham, a lady of many accomplish- ments, and of " extraordinary handsomenesse," but his heart was given to another. The Lady Penelope Devereux won it, and kept it tiU he fell on the field of Zutphen. Family regards had forbad their marriage, but she was united to the immortal part of him, and that contract has not been yet dissolved. She is still the Philoclea of the Arcadia, and Stella in the poems of Astrophel. It is unnecessary to follow, in detail, the course of Sir Philip Sidney's life. There is no strange inconsistency in it to reason off, no stain to clear, no blame to talk away. We describe it when we name his accomplishments. We remember it as we would a dream of uninterrupted glory. His learning, his beauty, his chivalry, his grace, shed a lustre on the most glorious reign recorded in the English annals. England herself, by reason of the wide>sprea4 fiune of Sir Philip Sidney, rose exalted in the eyes of foreign nations. He was the idol, the darling, of his own. For, with every sort of power at his command, it was his creed to think all vain but affection and honour, and to hold the simplest and cheapest pleasures the truest and most precious. The only displeasure he ever incurred at court, was, when he vindicated the rights and independence of English commoners in his own gallant person, against the arrogance of Englisli nobles in the person of the Earl of Oxford. For a time, then, he retired from the court, and sought rest in his loved simplicity. He went to Wilton, and there, for the amusement of his dear sister, Mary, Countess of Pembroke, he wrote the " Arcadia." " My great uncle," says Aubrey, " Mr. T. Browne, remembered him ; and said that he was wont to take his table-book out of his pocket, and write down his notions as they came into his head, when he was writing his Arcadia, as he was hunting on our pleasant plains.** Again, however, he returned to court, and his Queen seised every opportunity to do him honour. He received her smiles with the same high and manly gaUantry, the same plain and simple boldness, with which he had taken her frowns. In the end, Elizabeth— who, to preserve this *' Jewel of her crown," had forcibly laid hands on him when he prelected a voyage to America with Sir Francis Drake, and laid her veto on his quitting England, when he was offered the crown of Poland— could not restrain his bravery in battle, when circumstances called him there. At Zutphen, on the 22d of September, 1586, he received a mortal wound. He had a noble mourning. Kings dad themselves in dresses of grief, and universities poured forth their classical tributes of learning and of love. It is imposKible to look through an impartial medium at the genius of Sir Philip Sidney. It has the same privileges that adorned his life. " His wit and understand- ing," says his friend Lord Brooke, "beat upon his heart, to make himself and others, not in word or opinion, but in life and action, good and great." This beating upon the heart includes almost all that we would say. The sweetness of his poetry, its exquisite and pensive softness, its delicacy, and lanciftil richness, may be all referred to this, and to this alone, for in no other poet are they felt, as we feel them in Sidney, joined in immediate and most subtle union with the personal refinement of the poet's nature. Its main defects arise, as we apprehend, from the occasional ill-harmonised connexion which is seen in it between the high heroic and the simple pastoral. His sonnets we consider exquisite. They express, in the highest and moat perfect way, the lofty Sidnean love. For in this, as in all things else, we are thrown again upon a personal reference. We must remember that it is the love of Sir Philip Sidney, a love which did not feed upon, and exhaust itself, but which pervaded and illustrated his life, his actions, his pursuits, and made the glorious vanities and gracefril hyperboles of the passion " ThlngB not too brifhl or (ood For homan nature't daily food.** Let US be carefiil, then, in accusing Sir Philip Sidney of conceit. The images which lay at his feet, and were to him most natural, live far away frt>m the thoughts of more ordinary men. Judge him in all things by his own standard, and he will be found in all things more than worthy of his undying fame. t'li-'M Av^iT.'iiHKL a:::> .s:i:i i.\. Is truth, O L()V(\ with what a ]K)vish kind Thou d<»est proceed, in thy most serious wayes? That when the heav'n to thee his best display es, Yet of that l)est, thou h^av'st the best behiiide For like a chihle that some fiiire booke doth tiiid, With gilded leavc-s or coloured velume phiyes, Or, at the most on some fine j)icture stayes, But never heeds the fruit of writer's mind : fcSo when thou saw'st, in nature's cabinet Stella, thou straight look'tst bal)ies in her e\es, 72 SIDNEY. • In her cheekcs' pit, thou did'st thy pitfould set. And in her breast, bo-peepe, or couching, lies. Playing, and shining in each outward part ; But, foole, seek'st not to get into her heart Because I ofl, in darke abstracted guise, Seeme most alone in greatest company ; With dearth of words, or answers quite awrie. To them that would make speech of speech arise : They deeme, and of their doome the rumour Hies, That poison foule of bubbling pride doth lie So in my swelling breast, that only I Fawne on myselfe, and others do despise : Yet pride, I thinke, doth not my soule possesse, Which looks too oft in his unflattering glasse : But one worse fault, ambition, I confesse, That makes me oft my best friends overpasse, Unsoene, unheard, while thought to highest place Bends all his power, even unto Stella's grace. With how sad steps, O moone, thou climb*st the skies ! How silently, and with how wanne a face I What I may it be, that ev'n in heav'nly place That busie archer his sharpe arrowes tries ? Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feeFst a lover*s case ; I reade it in thy lookes, thy languish*t grace To me, that feele the like, thy state descries. Then, ev'n of fellowship, O moone, tell me. Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit ? Are beauties there as proud as here they be ? Do they above love to be lov*d, and yet Those lovers scorne, whom that love doth possesse ? Do they call vertue there ungratefulnesse ? Come, sleepe : O sleepe ! the certaine knot of peace, The baiting place of wit, the balme of woe. The poore man*s wealth, the prisoner s release^ Th* indifferent judge betweene the high and low ; » 4 § SIDNEY. 73 With shield of proofe, shield ine from out the prease Of those fierce darts, despaire at me doth throw : O make in me those civil warres to cease ; I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. Take thou of me, smooth pillowes, sweetest bed ; A chamber deafe to noise, and blind to light ; A rosie garland, and a weary hed : And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt, in me, Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. Having this day my horse, my hand, my launce. Guided so well, that I obtained the prize. Both by the judgment of the English eyes, And of some sent from that sweet enemy Fraunce ; Horsemen, my skill in horsemanship advaunce ; Town-folkes my strength ; a daintier judge applies His praise to sleight, which from good use doth rise : Some luckie wits impute it but to chaunce : Others, because of both sides I doe take My bloud from them who did excell in this, Thinke nature me a man of amies did make ; How farre they shot awrie I the true cause is, Stella look^t on, and from her heav'nly face. Sent forth the beames which made so faire my race. O EYES I which do the spheares of beautie move. Whose beames be joyes, whose joyes all vertues be, W^ho, while they make love conquer, conquer love, The schooles where Venus hath learn'd chastitie. O eyes I where humble lookes most glorious prove, Onely, lov'd tyrants, just in cruelty, Do not, O do not, from poore me remove, Keep still my zenith, ever shine on me : For though I never see them, but straightwayes My life forgets to nourish languish't sprites, Yet still on me, O eyes, dart downe your rayes ; And if, from majestic of sacred lights Oppressing mortall sense, my death proceed, Wrackes triumphs be, which love, high set, doth breed. i 74 SIDNEY. Because I breathe not love to ev'ry one, Nor do not use set colours for to weare ; Nor nourish speciall locks of vowed hair ; Nor give each speech a full point of a grone ; The courtly nymphs, acquainted with the mone Of them, who, in their lips, Love's standerd beare ; What he ? say they of me, now dare I sweare, He cannot love : no, no ; let him alone. And thinke so still, so Stella knowe my minde, Professe, indeed, I do not, Cupid's art ; But you, faire maidcs, at length this true shall finde, That his right badge is but worne in the hart : Dumbe swannes, not chat'ring pies, do lovers prove, They love indeed who quake to say they love. SONG. Who is it that this darke night. Underneath my window playneth ? It is one, who from thy sight Being (ah I) exil'd, disdayneth Ev'ry other vulgar light. Why, alas I and are you he ? Be not yet those fancies changed ? Dere, when you find change in me. Though from me you be estranged, Let my chaunge to ruine be. Well, in absence this will dy ; Leave to see, and leave to wonder. Absence sure will helpe, if I Can learne, how myselfe to sunder From what in my heart doth ly. But time will these thoughts remove : Time doth work what no man knoweth ; Time doth as the subject prove ; With time still affection groweth In the faithfull turtle-dove. SIDNEY. iO What if ye new beauties see, Will not they stir new aiFection ? Iwill thinke thy pictures be, (Image-like, of saints perfection) Poorely counterfeting thee. But your reason's purest light, Bids you leave such minds to nourish. Dere, do reason no such spite ; Never doth thy beauty flourish More then in thy reason's sight. But the wrongs love beares, will make Love at length leave undertaking. No, the more fooles it do shake, In a ground of so firme making, Deeper still they drive the stake. Peace I I think that some give eare ; Come no more, lest f get anger. Blisse, I will my blisse forbeare ; Fearing (sweete) you to endanger ; But my soule shall harbour there. Well, begone; begone, I say. Lest that Argus eyes perceive you. O unjust is fortune's sway ! Which can make me thus to leave you ; And from lowts to run away. SONG. Have I caught my heav'nly Jewell, Teaching sleepe most faire to be ? Now will I teach her that she, When she wakes, is too too cruel 1. Since sweet sleep her eyes hath charni'd, The two only darts of Love ; Now will I, with that boy, prove Some play, while he is disarmed. Her tongue, waking, still refuseth. Giving frankly niggard no : Now will I attempt to know. What no her tongue, sleeping, useth. 76 SIDNEY. See the hand whicli, waking, gardeth, Sleeping, grants a free resort : Now will I invade the fort ; Cowards Love with losse rewardeth. But, O foolo ! thinke of the danger Of her just and high disdaino : Now will I, alas ! refraine ; Love feares nothing else but anger. Yet those lips, so sweetly swelling. Do invite a stealing kisse : Now will I but venture this. Who will read, must first learne spelling. Oh ! sweet kisse ! but ah I she's waking ; Low'ring beautie chastens me : Now will I away hence flee : Foole ! more foole I for no more taking. SONG. O YOU that heare this voice, O you that see this face, Say whether of the choice Deserves the former place : Feare not to judge this bate, For it is void of hate. This side doth bc^auty take, For that doth musike speake. Fit oratours to make The strongest judgements weake : The barre to plead their right, Is only true delight. Thus doth the voice and face. These gentle lawyers wage, Like loving brothers case, For fathers heritage : That each while each contends, It selfe to other lends. SIDNEY. 77 For beautie beautifies, With heavenly hew and grace, The heavenly harmonies ; And in this faultlesse face, The perfect beauties be A perfect harmony. Musikc more loftly swels In speeches nobly placed : Beauty as far re excels, In action aptly graced : A friend each party drawes, To countenance his cause : Love more affected seemes. To beauties lovely light, And wonder more esteemes Of musikes wondrous might, But both to both so bent. As both in both are spent. Musike doth witnesse call The eare his truth to trie : Beauty brings to the hall, Eye-judgement of the eye. Both in tlieir objects such. As no exceptions tutch. The common sense, which might Be arbiter of this, To be forsooth upright, To both sides partiall is : He layes on this chiefe praise, Chiefe praise on that he laies. Then reason princesse try, Whose throne is in the mind, Which musike can in sky And hidden beauties find, Say whither thou wilt crowne With limitlesse renowne. r 78 LORD BROOKE. FvLKK Grkvils. Lord Brooke, " servant to Queen Elisabeth, countellor to Kitig James, and ftiend to Sir Philip Sidney," was bom at Alcaster, Warwickshire, in 1554. He was educated both at Oxford and at Cambridge, and obtained the fkvour of Queen £lixabeth, of whose court he was one of the brightest ornaments, and by whom he was rewarded with many profitable employments. He was created a Knight of the Bath at the coronation of James the Rnit, was afterwards appointed sub-treasurer and Chancellor of the Exchequer, and elevated to the Peerage in 1(>21. He was suddenly stabbed by one of his own retainers, who had served him long and faithfully, and who perhaps committed the act In a moment of madness, for he immediately afterwards destroyed himself. Lord Brooke died of the wound on the 30th of September, 16SS. The memorable epitaph we have quoted, and which he ordered to be inscribed on his tomb-stone, has rendered his name more familiar to the general reader than his many poems. He was the relative as well as the "friend" of Sir Philip Sidney; with whom he lived in " familiar exercise," and of whose ftiendship he boasts as the highest honour in the life of one who lived in Ikvour with crowned Monarchs and was the " Counsellor " of Kings. His Poems consist of various long and iminviting " Treatises ** on Humane Learning, Warres, Monarchic, and Religion : — and an Inquisition upon Fame and Honour. The Treatise on Monarchic is divided into fifteen sections, each section discussing such topics as " Strong Tyrants," ** the excellency of Monarchy" compared with " Aristo- cracy," " Democracy," and both " Joyntly," and including the subjects of Peace, War, the Church, Commerce, Crown Revenue, &c. They were first publiithed in 1633; and there are twenty-two pages wanting in all the copies that have yet been examined. They were doubtless cancelled, after the work was printed, because of something that was deemed censurable in their contents. It is probable, however, that these "erasures" may yet \te recovered. " His writings," observes Dr. Southey, "have an additional value, if (as may be believed) they represent the feelings and opinions of Sir Philip Sidney as well as his own :— and, perhaps, we may be Justified in imagining that the friendship between the two great men and great Poets was recorded by Sidney in the following exquisite lines: — " My irne Inve hath my hrart aad I hitve his. By ja«t ricbange one fur aBoltacr given. I bold hU drar, and minr he cannot miss. There nevrr was a hvller harKaIn driven ; My tme Inve haih my heart and I have his. His heart in me keeps him and me In one, M) heart in him his (huughu and senses gaide^ He loves my heart, for ome it was hi« own, I cherish his. because in me it hides ; My tme love bath my hi art and I have his " We may observe that it was usual for the older poets to address their friends by such endearing epithets as are now only applied to women. Portia calls Antonio the " bosom lover" of her lord; and the rough Menenius boasts of Curiolanus as his " lover." A more remarkable instance in illustration of this, mingling the real and the imaginative, will be found in the extracts fVom the poems of Shakspeare. Learning, sound judgment, Aid good intentions in the writer, are more apparent than poetry in the " Poems" and " Remains" of the statesman and the scholar. At times his meaning is so obscure as to be absolutely unintelligible. Now and then, however, he breaks forth in a strain of impassioned eloquence. His versification, though occasionally harsh and uncouth, is more often easy, and even harmonious. It is evident, at the same time, that he gave deeper consideration to the matter than to the manner of his writing; and was more anxious to impress upon the minds of his readers the weight and value of rauwentous truths than to please the foncy or even to interest the feelings ; — " His poliah't lines Are Attest to accomplish high designs." The Poems of Lord Brooke, although by no means attractive as a whole, contain enough to establish his character as a poet, and aflbrd abundant proof that he was an enlightened sUtesman. a good citiaeu, and an upright man— one. in short, worthy to bear the title he so much coveted -" the friend of Sir Philip Sidney." FROM A THEATISE OK WAliHE3. Thus see we how tliese ugly furious spirits, Of warre, are clothVl, colour'cl, and disguis'd. With stiles of vertue, honour, zeale, and merits. Whose owne complexion, well anatomised, A mixture is of pride, rage, avarice, Ambition, lust, and every tragicke vice. Some love no equals, some superiours scorne, One seekes more worlds, and he will Helene have. This covets gold, with divers faces borne. These humours reigne, and lead men to their grave : Whereby for bayes, and little wages, we Ruine our selves, to raise up tyranny. 80 BROOKE. And as when winds among tlienisolves doe jarre, Seas there are tost, and wave with wave must fight : So when pow'rs restlesse humours bring fortli warre, There people beare the faults, and wounds of might : The error, and diseases of the head Descending still, until! the limmes be dead. Yet are not peoples errors, ever free From guilt of wounds they suiFer by the warre ; Never did any publike misery Rise of it selfe ; Gods plagues still grounded are On common staines of our humanity : And to the flame, which ruincth mankind, Man gives the matter, or at least gives wind. Nor are these people carried into blood Oncly, and still with violent giddy passion. But in our nature, rightly understood, Rebellion lives, still striving to disfashion Order, authority, lawes, any good, That should restraine our liberty of pleasure. Bound our designes, or give desire a measure. So that in man the humour radicall Of violence, is a swellifag of desire ; To get that freedome, captiv*d by his fall ; Which yet falls more by striving to clime higher : Men would be tyrants, tyrants would be gods. Thus they become our scourges, we their rods. PROM A TREATISE OP RELIGION. For what else is religion in mankind, But raising of Gods image there decayed ? No habit, but a hallowed slate of mind Working in us, that he may be obey'd ; As God by it with us communicates, So we by duties must with all estates : With our Creator, by sincere devotion ; With creatures, by observance and affection ; Superiors, by respect of their promotion, BROOKE. 8] Inferiors, with the nature of protection : With all, by using all things of our own For others good, not to our selves alone. And ev'n this sacred band, this heavenly breath In man his understanding, knowledge is ; Obedience, in his will ; in conscience, faith ; Affections, love ; in death it self a bliss ; In body, terap'rance ; life, humility, Pledge to the mortal of eternity. Pure onely, where God makes the spirits pure ; It perfect grows, as imperfection dies ; Built on the rock of truth, that shall endure ; A spirit of God, that needs nmst multiply ; He shews his glory, cleerly to the best, Appears in clouds and horror to the rest. Offer these truths to pow*r, will she obey ? It prunes her pomp, perchance ploughs up the root ; It pride of tyrants humors doth allay, Makes God their lord, and casts them at his foot, This truth they cannot wave, yet will not do, And fear to know because that binds them too. Shew these to arts ; those riddles of the sin Which error first creates, and then inherits ; This light consumes those mists they flourish in, At once deprives their glory and their merit ; Those mortal forms, moulded of humane error. Dissolve themselves by looking in this mirror. Shew it to laws ; God's law, the true foundation. Proves how they build up earth, and loose the heaven ; Gives things eternal, mortal limitation. Ore-ruling him from whom their laws were given : God's laws are right, just, wise, and so would make us ; Mans, captious, divers, false, and so they take us. ^M 82 ROBERT SOUTHWELL. Robert Sovthtvell was born iu the year 1560, at St. Faith's in Norfolk, and received his early education in the English CollcKe at Douay. At the age of sixteen, while residing in Rome, he was admitted into the Society of the Jesuits. In 1584, he returned, as a missionary priest, to his native country, but he appears to have been disheartened by the vainness of his attempts to stay the progress of the Reformation, " living like a fureigucr, finding among strangers that which in his nearest blood, he presumed not to seek." In England, notwithstanding, he continued to reside, labour- ing diligently and with sincerity, until the year 1592, when he was arrested on a chaiige of sedition, and committed to a dungeon, in the Tower, so noisome and filthy, that his father was induced, successfully, to petition Queen Elisabeth that " his son being a gentleman he might l)e treated as such." He continued three years in prison, and, it is said, was ten several times put to the rack. At length, death appearing more easy and welcome than such continued torture, he applied to the Lord Treasurer Cecil, that he might be brought to trial : the brutal answer of the Lord Treasurer is recorded : " If he was in such haste to be hanged, he should quickly have his desire." On the 20th February. 1595, he was tried at Westminster, on a charge of High Treason, " in that he being a Popish Priest bom in the dominions of the crown of England, had come over thither from beyond sea, and had tarrj'ed there longer than three days without con- forming and taking the oaths." He was found guilty on his own confession, and was executed at Tyburn, according to the horrible practice of the age, on the day following his trial — meeting death, as the giver of a crown of martyrdom, with calmness and intrepidity ; and adding one to the long list of victims sacrificed to the inveterate and unchristian spirit which characterized the early stages of the Reformation. The poems of Southwell are all upon sacred subjects ; he was, undoubtedly, a sincere, fervent, and zealous believer in the faith he preached, and for which he suffered. The uncertainty of life, the hollowness of human pleasures, the consolations of religion, the anticiitations of future glory,— such are the leading themes that filled his heart and occupied his pen. There is an impassioned energy in his verse which shows that he was deeply in earnest — that he had devoted an enlarged mind to the spread of principles in which alone he trusted for salvation. If he was a Papist and a Jesuit, he was also a man and a Christian ; and though because of his " much zeal," during a season of strong excitement and general agitation, he was considered dangerous and doomed to perish in the prime of life, his biographer roust bear testimony to the holiness of his thoughts, the purity of his verse, and the kindliness and benignity of his nature. The longest of his poems is " St. Peter's Complaint" — the Apostle's lamentation over the weakness that induced him to deny and desert his master. But there it more poetry and a deeper interest in some of his shorter compositions. His declared object was to bring back the Poets from "the follies and feignings of love" in which they so continually indulged, to those " solcnm and devout matters, to which, in duty, they owe their abilities:" — to accomplish this end, he was induced " to weave a new web of their own loom." The themes he selected generally harmonized with the melancholy character of his mind— for the most part, according to his own quaint expression, hia " tunes are teares; " — but they are such as cannot fail to receive a welcome from all by whom the consolations of religion are appreciated, and who agree with the Poet Cowley, that " amongst all holy and consecrated things which the Devil ever stole and alienated from the 8er>ice of the Deity, there is none which he so universally and so long usurpt as Poetry." Tliat Southwell had genius of a very rare order is unde- niable — genius worthy of the high and ennobling themes of which he wrote, and in the treatment of which he has been seldom if ever uncharitable. They consist of " St. Peter's Complaint and St. Mar>' Magdalen's Funeral Teares, with sundry other selected and devout Poems " — •* Meeonia^, or certain excellent Poems and Spiritual Hymns"— and "Tlie Triumphs over death, or a Consolator>- Epistle forafllicted minds, on the affects of dying friends : first written for the consolation of one, but now pub- lished for the good of all." It is remarkable, observes Mr. Ellis, that the few copies of his works which now exist, arc the remnant of at least twenty-four different editions, of which eleven were printed between 1593 and 1600. They must therefore have obtained considerable popularity, although now but little known and rarely read. I-OVE"S SERVII.K L..>i. LovB, inistresse is of nmiiy minds, Yet few know whom they servr ; They reckon least how little Love Their service doth deservi*. Tlie will she robbeth from the wit, The sense from reason's lore ; Shee is delightfull in the rynde. Corrupted in tht^ con*. Shee shroudeth vice in vertue's veil, Pretending good in ill ; St SOUTHWELL. Shoe offiTotli joy, affordetli griofe, A kisso wliere she doth kill. A hoiii<'-sho\vro raines from her lips. Sweet liglits shine in her face ; Shee hath tlie blush of virgin minde, The niinde of viper's race. Shee makes thee seeke, yet fear to finde ; To finde,' but not enjoy : In many frownes some gliding smiles Shee yeelds to more annoy. Shee wooes thee to eome neere her fire, Yet doth she draw it from thee ; Farre oft* she makes thy heart to fry, And yet to freeze within thee. Shee letteth fall some luring baits For fooles to gather up ; Too sweet, too sowre, to everie taste Shee tempereth her cup. Soft soules she binds in tender twist. Small flyes in si)inner s webbe ; Shee sets afloate some luring streames, But makes them soone to ebbe. Her watrie eyes have burning force ; Her fiouds and fiames conspire : Teares kindle sparkes, sobs fuell are, And sighs doe blow her fire. May never was the month of love. For May is full of flown^s ; Hut rather April, wet by kind, For love is full of showres. Like tyrant, cruell wounds she gives. Like surgeon, salve she lends ; But salve and sore have equall force, For death is both their ends. With soothing words i nth railed soules Shee chaines in servil(> bands ; SOUTHWELL. 85 Her eye in silence hath a speech Which eye best understands. Her little sweet hath many sowres, Short hap immortal! harmes ; Her loving lookes are raurdring darts. Her songs bewitching charmes. Like winter rose and summer ice Herjoyes are still untimely; Before her Hope, behind Remorse : Faire first, in ^ne unseemelv. Moodes, passions, fancies jealous fit*?, Attend upon her traine : She yeeldeth rest without repose. And heaven in hellish paine. Her house is Sloth, her doore Deceit, And slipperie Hope her staires ; UnbashfuU Boldnesse bids her guests, And everie vice repaires. Her dyet is of such delights As please till they be past ; But then the poyson kills the heart That did intice the taste. Her sleep in sinne doth end in wrath, Remorse rings her awake ; Death calls her up, Shame drives her out, Despaires her upshot make. Plow not the seas, sowe not tlie sands, Leave off your idle paine ; Seeke other mistresse for your mindes> Love*8 service is in vaine. 86 SAMUEL DANIEL. Samuel Dahibl wu born near Taunton, in the year 15C2. HIk father war a music-raaftter ; but the youth appears to have been early patronized by the Countcu of Pembroke, " Sidney's sister, Pembrolte's mother," — *' the fosterer of him and hia muse," at whoHe charge he was entered n commoner of Magdalen Hall, Oxford, in 1579. He quitted college at the end of three years, without a degree — ^the studies of Histor>' and Poetry being more congenial to his taste than the dryer pursuits of Alma Mater. He afterwards became tutor to the Lady Aime Gilford, and succeeded Spenser as Poet Laureat to Queen Elizabeth. The title, however, was then a mere compliment, and conferred no pecuniary advantages. He was subsequently appointed Groom of the Chamber to the Queen of James the First : rented a small house and garden in Old- street, " near London;" and towards the end of his life, retired to a farm either at Philip's Norton in Somersetshire, or Devises in Wiltshire — his biographers are divided as to which — where "after some time spent in the ervjo^mrnt of the Muses and religious conversation," he died in October 1619 — and where a tablet was erected to his memory, " in gratitude," by the lady to whom he was tutor — his popularity having greatly lessened — so much so that he himself says, he " had outlived the date of former grace, acceptance, and delight :" " Bat yearn have dune this wrons To make me write tuo much and live too Iob|." His poetical works consist of flfty-seven sonnets ; the Complaint of Rosamond ; the Ijettcr of Octavia to Mark Anthony ; Hymen's Triumph and the Queen's Arcadia, two pastoral tragi-comedies ; Cleopatra and Philotas, two tragedies; Musophilus, or a general defence of learning ; the History of the Civil Wars, and various miscel- laneous poems.— It is however upon some of the latter, and his sonnets, that his reputation principally depends. His most elaborate work, " the Civil Wars," in the composition of which he spent many years, and on which he mainly rested his hopes of fame, is dull, heavy, and prosaic. Although he is at times elevated into enthusiasm, and assumes the garb and tone of the true poet, it is in general little more than a dry chronicle in measured lines — rarely offending against good sense or good taste, but neither stirred by passion nor enlivened by description. His dramatic poems have the same faults. His " treading in the steps of the ancients in the modelizing of his fable and the conduct of his morals " is attributed to him as a merit — but to attain this object he sacriflced reality, nature, and life. His tragedies are written in alternate rhymes. The whole of his works were collected by his brother, and printed in 4to, in 1623. In the writings of Daniel, however, there is much to praise : his diction is easy, his language natural ; and there is a fine, weighty, and philoaophic vein flowing through them all : he is never guilty of pedantry or conceit, and though rarely sublime he is often pathetic. If there is little to praise — comparatively little in so voluminous a writer— there is much less to censure. His ambition appears not to have carried him Cur beyond the desire to be intelligible. Timidity was his great fault. So completely did he distrust his own powers as to have dreaded the danger of a single step beyond the narrowest bounds of propriety. He has thus recorded his own character : " irre- solution and a self-distrust were the most apparent faults of my nature.** Unfortunately the principal topics he selected were calculated to Increase this diffidence ; had he cultivated fiincy more and knowledge less, a mind so great as his must have achieved that fame for which he so devoutly longed, and which he lived to see withheld fh>in him — although he continued to enjoy the friendship and receive the praise of the greatest men of his age. In his dedication of Philotas, he alludes with much feeling to his own poetry and its want of success : — " Never had mj harmieaa pen at all Oestained with any looae liiiinodr«ty. Nor ever noted to l>e toochrd with (all, Tu aggravate the wurat man't infamy. Rut still have done the Talrest oitares Tu virtue and the tine, yet nouKht |»re«ail4 And all uor labuurs are without siu-<'<'k», Kor either favour or our virtue faiU " T' ■; UK I .' :iV ANNK. ■ ".Ifh: M' Unto t\w tcmlcr youth of thos<» tain* cics The lij^lit of judgpiiient can arisr but new, And yong, the worM appoarcs t' a yon^ (onccit, Wliil'st thorow the unarcpiainted faculties Th(; late invested soule doth rawly view Those objects which on that discretion wait. Yet you that such a laire advanta«:e have Both by your birth and hai)py ])ow'rs, t'out fjo, And be before vour veeres can fain-ly jxuesse What hue (»f life holdes surest without stain(\ Ilavini; your well-wrought heart full furnish't so With all the images of wt»rthinesso, r 88 DANIEL. As there is left no rooiiie at all t' invest Fignres of other forme but sanctitie : Whilst yet those cleane-ereated thoughts, within The garden of your innocencies rest. Where are no motions of defonnitie, Nor any doore at all to let them in. TO THE LADIE MARGARET, COUNTESSE OF CUMBERLAND. He that of such a height hath built his minde, And rear'd the dwelling of his thoughts so strong, As neither feare nor hope can shake the frame Of his resolved pow'rs, nor all the winde Of vanitie or malice pierce to wrong His setled peace, or to disturbe the same ; What a faire seate hath he, from wh(mce he may The boundlesse w&stes and weilds of man survay. And with how free an eye doth he looke downe Upon these lower regions of turmoyle. Where all the stormes of passions mainly beat On flesh and bloud, where honour, pow'r, renowne Are onely gay afflictions, golden toyle, Where greatncsse stands upon as feeble feet As frailty doth, and onely great doth seeme To little minds, who doe it so esteeme. He lookes upon the mightiest monarchs warres But onely as on stately robberie^s, W'here evermore the fortune that prevailes Must be the right, the ill-succeeding marres The fairest and the best-fac't enterprize : Great pirat Pompey lesser pirats quailes. Justice, he sees, as if seduced, still Conspires with pow'r, whose cause must not be ill. He sees the &ce of right t' appeare as manifoldc As are the passions of uncertaine man, Who puts it in all colours, all attires, To serve his ends and make his courses holdc : He sees, that let deceit worke what it can. Plot and contrive base waves to high desires, That the all-guiding Providence doth yet All disappoint, and mocks this smoake of wit. DAMKL. 8*) Nor is he mov*d with all the thunder-cracks Of tyrant's thn^ats, or with the surly brow Of Power, that proudly sits on others crimes, Charg'd with more crj'ing sinnes then thos<; he checks ; The stormes of sad confusion, that may grow Up in the present, for the comming times. Appall not him, that hath no side at all But of himselfe, and knowes the worst can fall. Although his heart so neere allied to earth, Cannot but pitty the perpU'xed state Of troublous and distrest mortalitie, That thus make way unto the ougly birth Of their owne sorrowes, and doe still beget Affliction upon imbecillitie : Yet seeing thus the course of things must runne, He lookes thereon, not strange ; but as foredone. And whilst distraught ambition compasst»s And is incompast, whil'st as craft deceives And is deceived, whil'st man doth ransacke man, And builds on bloud, and rises by distresse, And th* inheritance of desolation leaves To great expecting hopes, he lookes thereon As from the shore of peace with unwet eie, And beares no venture in impietie. Thus, madam, fares that man that hath prepared A rest for his desires, and sees all things Beneath him, and hath learn'd this booke of man, Full of the notes of frailty, and compared The best of glory with her sufferings. By whom I see you labour all you can To plant your heart, and set your thoughts as neare Hb glorious mansion as your powers can beare. Which, madam, are so soundly fashioned By that cleere judgement that hath carryed you Beyond the feeble limits of your kinde, As they can stand against the strongest head Passion can make, inur'd to any hue The world can cast, that cannot cast that minde Out of her forme of goodnesse, that doth see Both what the best and worst of earth can be. Which makes, that whatsoever here befalles You in the region of your selfe remaine. Where no vaine breath of th* impudent molests. That hath secur d within the brasen walles N 90 DANIEL. Of a cleore conscience, that without all staine Rises in peace, in innocencie rests, Whilst all what Malice from without procures, Shewes her owne ougly heart, but hurts not yours. And whereas none rejoyce more in revenge Then women use to doe, yet you well know, That wrong is better checkt, by being contemnM Then being pursu'd leaving to him t' avenge To whom it appertaines ; wherein you show How worthily your cleerenesse hath condemned Base Malediction, living in the darke, That at the raies of goodnesse still doth barke. Knowing the heart of man is set to be The centre of this world, about the which These revolutions of disturbances Still roule, where all th' aspects of miserie Predominate, whose strong effects are such As h(j must bearc, being pow'rlesse to redresse ; And that unlessc above himselfc he can Erect himselfe, how poore a thing is man I And how turmoyl'd they are, that levell lie With earth, and cannot lift themselves from thence ; That never are at peace with their desires. But worke beyond their yeeres, and even denie Dotage her rest, and hardly will dispence With death : that when ability expires. Desire lives still : so much delight they have To carry toyle and travell to the grave. Whose ends you see, and what can be the best They reach unto, when they have cast the summc And reckonings of their glory, and you know This floting life hath but this port of rest, A heart prepar d, that feares no ill to come : And that mans greatnesse rests but in his show, The best of ail whose dayes consumed are Either in warre, or peace conceiving warre. This concord, madame, of a well-tun'd minde Hath 1)eene so set, by that all- working hand Of Heaven, that though the world hath done his worst To put it out, by discords most unkinde, Yet doth it still in perfect union stand With God and man, nor ever will be forc't From that most sweet accord, but still agre(» Equall in foi*tunes inequalities DANIEL. 91 And this note (madame) of your worthinesse Remaines recorded in so many hearts, As time nor malice cannot wrong your right In th' inheritance of fame you must possesse, You that have built you by your great deserts, Out of small meanes, a farre more exquisit And glorious dwelling for your honoured name Then all the gold that leaden minds can frames TO HKNRY WRIOTHEBLY, EARLB OF SOUTHAMPTUN . He who hath never warr d with miserie, Nor ever tugg'd with fortune and distresses Hath had n* occa:sion nor no field to trie The strength and forces of his worthinesse : Those parts of judgement which felicitie Keepes as concealed, affliction must expresse ; And onely men shew their abilities, And what they are, in their extremities. The world had never taken so full note Of what thou art, hadst thou not beene undone. And onely thy affliction hath begot More fame, then thy best fortunes could have done ; For ever, by adversitie are wrought The greatest workes of admiration. And all the faire examples of renowne Out of distresse and miserie are growne. Mutius the fire, the tortures Regulus, Did make the miracles of faith and zeaie. Exile renowned, and graced Rutilius ; Imprisonment and poyson did reveale The worth of Socrates ; Fabritius Povertie did grace that conmion-weale More then ail Syllaes riches got with strife ; And Catoes death did vie with Csesars life. Not to b* unhappy is unhappynesse ; And misery not t* have knowne miserie : For the best way unto discretion, is The way that leades us by adversitie. 92 DANIEL. Aii(i men are better shew'd what is aniisse, By th* expert finger of calamitie, Then they can be with all that fortune brings, Who never shewes them the true face of things. How could we know that thou could'st have indurM, With a reposed cheere, wrong and disgrace ; And with a heart and countenance assured Have lookt sterne Death and horror in the face ! How should we know thy soule had beene secur'd In honest counsels and in way unbase I Hadst thou not stood to shew us what thou wert. By thy affliction, that discriM thy heart. ■ It is not but the tempest that doth show The sea-mans cunning ; but the field' that tries The captaines courage : and we come to know Best what men are, in their worst jeoperdies : For lo, how many have we scene to grow To high renowne from lowest miseries, Out of the hands of death, and many a one T' have beene undone, had they not beene undone. He that indures for what his conscience knowes Not to be ill, doth from a patience hie Looke onely on the cause whereto he owes Those sufTcrings, not on his miserie : The more h* endures, the more his glory growes. Which never growes from imbecillitie : Onely the best composed and worthiest harts . God sets to act the hardest and constant*st parts. BONNET. Restore thy tresses to the golden ore, Yeeld Cithereas sonne those arkes of love ; Bequeath the heavens the starres that I adore. And to th* orient do thy pearles remove. Yeeld thy hands pride unto th* ivory white, T Arabian odors give thy breathing sweete ; Restore thy blush unto Aurora bright. To Thetis give the honour of thy feete. • DANIEL. 9'5 Let Venus have thy graces, her resigned, And thy sweet voice give back unto the splieai'es : But yet restore thy fierce and cruell mind, To Hyrcan tygres, and to ruthles beares. Yeeld to the marble thy hard hart againe ; So shalt thou cease to plague, and I to palnc. SONNET. Care-charmer Sleepe, sonne of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darknos borne : Relieve my languish, and restore the light. With darke forgetting of my care returne. And let the day be time enought to mourne The shipwracke of my ill adventred youth : Let waking eyes suffice to waile their scorne. Without the torment of the nights untruth. Cease dreames, th* images of day desires, To modell forth the passions of the morrow : Never let rising sunne approve you Hers, To adde more griefe to aggravate my sorrow. Still let me sleepe, imbraeing clouds in vaine. And never wake to feele the dayes disdaine. A I'ASTORAL. O HAPPY golden age, Not for that rivers ranne With streames of milke, and hunny dropt from trees, Not that the earth did gage Unto the husband-man Her voluntary fruites, free without fees : Not for no cold did freeze, Nor any cloud beguile, Th' etemall flowring spring Wherein liv'd every thing, And whereon th' heavens perpetually did smile, Not for no ship had brought From forraine shores, or warres or wares ill sought. 94 DANIEL. But onely for that name. That idle name of wind : That idoii of deceit, that empty sound Caird Honor, which became The tyran of the niinde : And so torments our nature without ground, Was not yet vainly found : Nor yet sad griefes imparts Amidst the sweet delights Of joy full amorous wights. Nor were his hard lawcs knowne to free-borne hearts. But golden lawes like these Which Nature wrote. That's law full which doth please ! Then amongst fiowres and springs Making delightfull sport. Sate lovers without conflict, without flame. And nymphs and shepheards sings Mixing in wanton sort Whisperings with songs, then kisses with tlie same Which from aflcction came : The naked virgin then Her roses fresh reveaies, W^hich now her vaile conceales, The tender apples in her bosome scene, And oft in rivers cleere The lovers with their loves consorting were. Honor, thou first didst close The spring of all delight : Denying water to the amorous thirst ; Thou taught*st faire eyes to lose The glory of their light. Restrained from men, and on themselves reverst. Thou in a lawne didst flrst Those golden haires incase, Late spred unto the wind ; Thou mad'st loose grace unkind, Gav'st bridle to their words, art to their pace. O Honour it is thou That mak st that stealth, which love doth free allow. It is thy worke that brings Our griefes, and torments thus : But thou fierce lord of Nature and of Love, The quallifier of kings, What doest thou here with us \ DANIEL. 95 That are below thy power, shut from alxive ? Goe and from us remove, Trouble the niighties sleepe. Let us neglected, base, Live still without thy grace, And th* use of th* ancient happy ages keope ; Let's love, this life of ours Can make no truce with time that all devoui-s. Let's love, the sun doth set, and rise agaiius But when as our short light Comes once to set, it makes eternall night. AN ODE. Now each creature joyes the other, Pa.ssing happy dayes and 1iow(ts, One bird reports unto another. In the fall of silver showers. Whilst the earth (our common mother) Hath her bosome deckt with flowers. Whilst the greatest torch of heaven. With bright rayes warmes Floras lap, Making nights and dayes both even, Chearing plants with fresher sap : My field of flowers quite bereven. Wants refresh of better hap. Eccho, daughter of the aire, (Babling guest of rocks and hils,) Knows the name of my fierce faire, And sounds the accents of my ils. Each thing pitties my dispaire. Whilst that she her lover kils. Whilst that she (O cruell mayd) Doth me and my love despise, My lives florish is decayed. That depended on her eyes : But her will must be obeyed. And well he ends for love who dies. {)(> MICHAEL DRAYTON. Mini AKL DaAYTOK was born at Hartull, Warwickshire, in 1S68;— the deMcndant of an "ancient and worthy" family. " In his tender ape he was blessed with a forwardness of genius, a sweetness of aspect, temper and deportment;" and when only ten years old was placed as page to ** some person of honour." His mind appears to have liad an early bias towards poetry, and it is recorded of him that while yet a child, he was anxious to know what •« kind of creatures those Poets were"— beseeching his tutor " of all things to make him one." He studied at Oxford ; and afterwards pro- bably held some post in the army of Elizabeth. In 1593, he first appeared before the world as an author; a collection of •'Pastorals/' was soon foUowod by the ••Barons Wars." In 1013, he pubUshed the first part of the Poly-olbion; and the second part in 1622; and in 1626, the addition of Poet lAureat was affixed to his name. In 1631, he ••exchanged his laurel for a crown of glory," and was buried in Westminster Abbey. His monument, it is said, was erected by the Countess of Dorset,— and his epitaph was written either by Ben Jonson or Quarles*— both of whom were his personal friends. The epitaph is a fine model of thU style of composition. " Doe pioat marble. \el thy Reader* know What they and what their children owe Tu Drayton'* name ; who*e sacred da»t We recommend onto thy tmat ; Protect his memory and preaerve hia atory. Remain a lasting monummt of his glory ; And when thy ruins shall dikclaime To be the treasurer of his name ; Hia name, that cannot fade, shall b« An eTerlasting monament to thee." Of the numerous works of Drayton— including Congratulatory Odes, Divine Odes, Elegies, Fables, Legends, Ileroical Epistles, and Historical Poems— there are but two that have maintained their popularity— Nj-mphidla, or the Court of Fayrie, and the Poly-olbion. The Nymphidia, which Dr. Anderson characterises as a fine "Prelude" to the Witch's Cauldron in Macbeth— forgetting that Drayton flourished long after the retirement of the great Bard— is manifestly founded on the Midsummer Night's Dream. It is one of the most spirited and fancifUl compositions in the langiuige — ** a master-piece in the grotesque kind." The Poly-olbion he has himself described as •• a strange Herculean toil " — ^but it exhibits the writer's large and accurate knowledge as an historian, an antiquary, a naturalist, and a geographer ; and although somewhat too heavy for the general reader, burthcned as it is by the nature of the subject and the measure employed, it presents frequent examples of the rich fancy of the Poet, and is written throughout with untiring vigour and freshness. It is a topographical register in verse, containing descriptions of the several parts of England* interspersed with episodes concerning the Roman Conquest, the coming of the Saxons, the influx of the Danes, &c. &c., and intermixed with accounts of our Island rivers, mountains, forests, castles, &c. &c., and biographical sketches of our great men. The volume consists of thirty •• songs," the first eighteen of which were illustrated by notes of the learned Selden, accompanied by maps, representing the variotis cities, woods, kc. by figures of men and women. The poem must be read for information rather than pleasure ; to peruse it, indeed, flrom beginning to end would be a task almost as diffi- cult as the •• Herculean toil " of the writer. If his knowledge is so acute and accurate as to have rendered him ••an authority" among geographers and historians, his learning has not rendered his work valuable to the lovers of that less rugged lore which is studied by the heart. Some of the lesser poems of Drayton, however, are fiill of fire ; they have a bold and lofty tone ; and flow as freely as if the Poet was unconscious of the restraints which rhyme and measure imposed upon him— while the versification is exceedingly correct and harmonious. Among his •' sonnets " may be foimd some of the most perfect in the language. Although invariably containing in each fourteen lines, he appears to have been aware that they were not formed upon the rules to which it is understood the sonnet is suttfected, and gave to them the title of Ideas. • la a Baaaacript note on tbe Life of Daniel, Coleridge aays, "A noble epitaph, more sweet and rlijrUinetical than Joaaon commonly la, and mora robnal and diimlScd than (|Baries." KU'.-M i-OLY-OLUiON. Here thou I cannot chooso but bitterly cxolainio Against those fools that all antiquity detanie, Becaus(* they have found out, sonic credulous ages laid Slight fictions with the truth, \vhil>t truth or rumour staid ; And that one forward tinn» (])erceiving tiie neglect A former of h(»r had) to purchaser her resjx^ct, With toys then trinim'd her uj), the drowsy world t' allure, And lent her what it thought might appetite procure To man, whose mind doth still varietie pursue; And therefore to those things whose grounds wen* very true. Though naked yet and bare (not having to content Th(» wayward curious ear), gave fietive ornament ; And fitter thought, the truth they should in (pie>tion eall. r 98 DRAYTON. Than coldly sparing that, the truth should go and all. And surely I suppose, that which this froward time Doth scandalize her with to be her heinous crime, That her most preserved : for, still where wit hath found A thing most clearly true, it made that fiction's ground : Which she supposed might give sure colour to them both : From which, as from a root, this wondred error grow'th. At which our critics gird, whose judgments are so strict. And he the bravest man who most can contradict That which decrepit age (which forced is to leane Upon tradition) tells ; esteeming it so meane, As they it quite reject, and for some trifling thing (Which time hath pinn*d to truth) they all away will fling. These men (for all the world) like our precisians be. Who for some crosse or saint they in the window see Will pluck down all the church : soul-blinded sots that creepe In dirt, and never saw the wonders of the deepe : Therefore (in my conceit) most rightly serv*d are they That to the Roman trust (on his report that stay) Our truth from him to learn, as ignorant of ours As we were then of his ; except 'twere of his powers 2 Who our wise Druyds here unmercifully slew ; Like whom, great Nature's depths no men yet ever knew. Nor with such dauntless spirits were ever yet inspired ; Who at their proud arrive th* ambitious Romans fir d. When first they heard them preach the soul's immortal state ; And even in Rome's despite, and in contempt of fate, Grasp'd hands with horrid death: which out of hate and pride They slew, who through the world were reverenced beside. To understand our state, no marvaii then though we Should so to Caesar seek, in his reports to see What anciently we were ; when in our infant war, Unskilful of our tongue but by interpreter, He nothing had of ours which our great bards did sing. Except some few poor words ; and those again to bring Unto the Latin sounds, and easiness they us'd. By their most filed speech, our British most abus'd. But of our former state, beginning, our descent. The wars we had at home, the conquests where we went, He never understood. And though the Romans here So noble trophies left, as very worthy were A people great as they, yet did they ours neglect. Long rear'd ere they arriv'd. DRAYTON. 99 IDEAS. Since there's no help, come, let us kisse aiid part, Nay, I have done, you get no more of me ; And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart. That thus so cleanly I myselfe can free ; Shake hands for ever, cancell all our vowes ; And when we meet at any time againc, Be it not seen in either of our browes That we one jot of former love retaine. Now at the last gaspe of Love*s latest breath. When his pulse failing, passion speechlosse lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death. And Innocence is closing up his eyes. Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might*st him yet recover. Love banished heaven, in earth was held in scorue, Wand'ring abroad in need and beggery ; And wanting friends, though of a goddessc borne, Yet crav'd the alnies of such as passed by : I, like a man devout and charitable, Cloth'd the naked, lodg'd this wandering guest. With sighes and teares still furnishing his table. With what might make the miserable blest ; But this ungratefull, for my good desert, Intic'd my thoughts against me to conspire. Who gave consent to steale away my heart. And set my breast, his lodging, on a fire. Well, well, my friends, when beggers grow thus bold, No marvcll then though charity grow cold. As Love and I late harboured in one innc With proverbs thus each other entertaine : In love there is no lacke, thus I begin ; Faire words make fooles, replieth he againe ; Who spares to speake, doth spare to speedy ((juoth 1) ; As well (saith he) too forward, as too slow : Fortune assists the boldest, I reply ; A hasty man (quoth he) ne'er wanted woe : A 100 DRAYTON. . Labour is light, where love (quoth I) doth pay ; (Saith he) Light burthens heavy, if far borne: (Quoth I) The maine lost, cast the by away ; Y* have spun a faire thred, he replies in scorue. And having thus awhile each other thwarted, Fooles as we met, so fooles again we parted. TO HIMSELFE AND THE HARPE. And why not I, as hee That* s greatest, if as free, (In sundry strains that strive, Since there so many be) Th* old Lyrick kind revive ? I will, yea, and I may ; Who shall oppose my way ? For what is he alone, That of himselfe can say, Hee's heire of Helicon ? Apollo, and the Nine, Forbid no man their shrine. That commeth with hands pure ; Else they be so divine. They will him not indurc. For they be such coy things, That they care not for kings. And dare let them know it ; Nor may he touch their springs. That is not borne a Poet The Phocean it did prove. Whom when foule lust did move, Those mayds unchaste to make, Fell, as with them he strove. His neck, and justly, brake. That instrument ne'r heard, Strooke by the skilfull bard. It strongly to awake ; But it th' infemalls skar d, And made Olympus quake. DRAYTON. 101 As those prophetike strings Whose sounds with fiery wings Drave fiends from their abode, Touched by the best of kings, That sang the holy ode: So his, which women slue, And it int* Hebrus threw, Such sounds yet forth it sent, The bankes to weepe that drue, As downe the streame it went. That by the tortoyse-shell. To Maya's sonne it fell, The most thereof no doubt. But sure some power did dwell In him who found it out. The wildest of the field. The ay re, with rivers t* yeeld. Which mov*d ; that sturdy glebes, And massie oakes could weeld To rayse the pyles of Thebes. And diversly though strung, So anciently we sung To it, that now scarce knowne, If first it did belong To Greece or if our owne. The Druydes imbrew'd With gore, on altars rude With sacrifices crownM In hollow woods bedew'd, Ador d the trembling sound. Though we be all to seeke Of Pindar that great Greeke, To finger it aright, The soule with power to strike, His hand retain'd such might. Or him that Rome did grace, Whojje ay res we all imbrace, 102 DRAYTON. That scarcely found his peere, Nor giveth Phcebus place For strokes divinely cleere. The Irish I admire, And still cleave to that lyre, As our musike's mother, And thinke, till I expire, Apollo's such another. As Britons, that so long Have held this antike song. And let all our carpers Forbeare their fame to wrong, Th' are right skilfuU harpers. Southerne, I long tliee spare, Yet wish thee well to fare. Who me so pleased'st greatly, As first, therefore more rare, Handling thy harpe neatly. To those that with despight Shall terme these numbers slight, Tell them their judgment's blind, Much erring from the right, It b a noble kind. Nor is't the verse doth make. That giveth or doth take, 'Tis possible to clyme. To kindle, or to slake. Although in Skelton's ryme. AN ODfi WRITTEN IN THE PEAKE. This while we are abroad. Shall we not touch our Ivre ? Shall we not sing an Ode ? Shall that holy fire, In us that strongly glow'd. In this cold ayre expire ? Long since the summer lajd Her luHtic brav'ry downe, The autumne halfc is way'd. And Boreas 'gins to frowiie, Since now I ilid l>eljoM Great Brute's tirst builileil tdwne. Tliough in the utmost Pcake A while we doe reitiaine, Amongst the mountaiues lileake Expos'd to flieet and raine, No sport our honres sliall brcakc e groui And though t)ie princely Thames With beauteous nymphs* almuiid. And by old Camber's streanies Be many wonders found ; Yet many rivers cleare Here glide in silver swathes, And what of all most deare, Buckstun'e delicious batliea, Strong ale and noble cheare, T" asBwage breeme winters scathes. Those grim and horrid caves, Whose lookes affright the day, Wherein riice Nature saves What she would not bewray. Our better leisure craves, And doth invite our lay. In placea farre or neare, Or famous, or obscure, Where wholesome is the ayre. Or where the most impure, All times, and every-where, The muse is still in ure. I 4 lOi WILMAM SIIAKSPEAKK. William SuAKaPE\RF.. the son of a woolstaplcr, in StrntforJ - on - Avon, was born in that town on the 2:id of April, 1564. In 15S2, he married Anntr Hathaway. In 15SG, he left his home, his wife, and the three children she had lionie him, and started alone for Tjondon. Until 15!M he passed the life of a player in the theatre at UlackfHam. About this time he began to write, but modestly oecupied himiielf fur two years in altering the play.H of others. It was not until 1593 that he circulated his own. Hienceforward, through the space of twenty years, he realized the most won- derful destiny as a writer that has yet fallen to any of the sons of men. During half that period he continued a player. In 1G03, having accomplished the imrchase of a tolerably large share in the Globe theatre, he left the stage. In 1613, he disposed of his property, and retired to Stratford. He died on his fifty-second birth-day— on the 23d of April, IBIG — ending life, as he began it, with the soft flowing* of his native Avon murmuring near him. Such is the sum of our absolute knowledge of the public history of Shakspcare, for his genius was only rivalled by that wonderful modesty which kept him, through all the changes of his life, an unassuming and unobtrusive man. Unable as we are, however, to follow him through his great public career, wc can pursue him into the solitude of his heart and home. His sonnets are altogether personal. A portion of thos«e we have arranged illus- trate, the reader will at once see, two passages in the life of Shakspeare, one of friend- ship and the other of love, and the story they tell is a strange one. It is only neces8Ar>' here to make this reference to it. Of their characteristics, as poems, it is impossible to speak too highly. In the profoundest thought^ the truest refinement, and the most exquisite feeling of natural loveliness, they have never been excelled. Moving through the two main springs of exbtencc, Love and Sorrow, " Comfort and Despair ;" to the one they add glory, and the other they redeem by beauty. Their versification is sweet and flowing. The rest of the sonnets we have quoted will be found to illustrate as many various characteristics in the life and personal thoughts of this greatest of writers, all of them inexpressibly interesting and touching, and all of them dashed with pathos the sweetest and most profound. It is unnecessary to request the reader to study them with this view. He will see with what a Jealous self-watchfUlness Shakspeare dis- trusted even his high gilts, with what a noble modesty he expresses his own defects, and how atfectingly he alludes to his profession of a player, as one that had hurt his mind. His feelings on the question of fame possess deep interest. Struggling against the poverty and reproach of the present, he does not appear to have thought it worth his while to obtain for himself a more secure reversion in the (liturc. He is conscious of his power, but careless of the personal glory it might associate with his name. Knowing himself the creator of immortal things, he does not care to survive along with them. In his moments of greatest despondency, to be the idol of posterity never struck him as a recompense for the slander of the living. Wooing love and the fortunes of the world unsuccessfully, he never rewarded his failure by taking Immor- tality as a secret bride. The reason of this we believe to have been the extreme uni- versality of his genius. No after personal consideration of any sort would mix Itself with what belonged only to the great heart of the World. Shakspeare died, as we have seen, when his life was what is usually considered a little past the prime. Thought, however, would seem to have done the work of years. He talks of his days as "past the best" a considerable time before he died; of his iisoe as shown him in his glass, "bated and chopp'd by tann'd antiquity;'* and of hours having " drained his blood and flll'd his brow with lines and wrinkles." The stanxa which anticipates a " confin'd doom" will also be noticed, and that profoundly pathetic cry for restfUl death, which seems to us to fix the paternity of Hamlet. Of his general personal appearance we have no authentic account ; but this may be gathered, perhaps, from some of these quotations. It is clear, we think, that he was aflnicted with lameness, or at least a weakness in the legs. In proof of this we equally rely on the sonnets in which the circumstance itself is alluded to, as in those which so plainly intimate his frequent habit of riding on horseback. In connexion with the latter another anecdote will be observed, somewhat startling at first, but redeemed by a pretty touch of tenderness. SHAKSPEARK. When in disgrace with fortiino and mens rypf, I all alone l^cweepe my outcast state. And trouble deafc heaven witli my bootlc^sc erjir And looke upon my selfci and curso my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hf)iie. Featured like him, like him with friends posscst, Desiring this man's art, and that man'ti scope, With what I moat injoy cont^^nted least: Yet in these thoughts my selfe almost ilespising, tiaply I thiiike on thee, an Suspect I may, yet not directly tell ; But being both from me, both to each friend> I guesse one angell in another's hell. Yet this sball I ne'er know, but live in doubt. Till my bad angel fire my good one out Those pretty wrongs that libertie commits. When I am sometime absent from thy heart. Thy beautie and thy yeares full well befits, For 8till temptation foUowes where thou art. 110 SHAKSPEARE. Gentle thou art, and therefore to be wonne, Beautious thou art, therefore to be assaiVd ; And when a woman wooes, what woman's sonne Will sourely leave her till she have prevailed ? Aye me I but yet thou might'st my seate forbeare, And chide thy beautie and thy straying youth, Who lead thee in their ryot even there Where thou art forct to break a two-fold truth ; Her's, by thy beautie tempting her to thee. Thine, by thy beautie being false to me. That thou hast her, it is not all my griefe. And yet it may be said I loved her dearly ; That she hath thee, is of my wayling cheef, A losse in love that touches me more neerly. Loving offenders, thus I will excuse yee : — Thou doest love her, because thou know'st I love her ; And for my sake even so doth she abuse me. Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her. If I loose thee, my losse is my love's gaine. And loosing her, my friend hath found that losse ; Both finde each other, and I loose both twaine, And both for my sake lay on me this crosse : But here's the joy ; my friend and I are one ; Sweet flattery I — ^then shee loves but me alone. O NEVER say that I was false of heart, Though absence seem'd my flame to quallifle. As easie might I from my selfe depart, As from my soule which in thy breast doth lye : That is my home of love : if I have ranged, Like him that travails, I retume againe ; Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, — So that my selfe bring water for my staine. Never beleeve, though in my nature raign'd All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, That it could so preposterously be stain'd. To leave for nothing all thy summe of good ; For nothing this wide universe I call> Save thou, my rose ; in it thou art my all. That thou art blam'd shall not be thy defect, For slander's marke was ever yet the fair ; SIIAKSPEAKE. Ill The ornament of beautie is suspect, A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest ayre : So thou be good, slander doth but approve Thy worth the greater, being woo*d of time ; For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love, And thou present*st a pure unstayncd prime. Thou hast passed by the ambush of young dayes. Either not assaiFd, or victor being charg(*d ; Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise. To tye up envy, evermore inlarged : If some suspect of ill mai^k'd not thy show, Then thou alone kingdomes of hearts shouldst owe. What potions have I drunke of Syren teares, Distiird from limbecks foule as hell within. Applying feares to hopes, and hopes to feares. Still loosing when I saw my selfe to win I What wretched errors hath my heart committed. Whilst it hath thought it selfe so blessed never ! How have mine eyes out of their spheares beene fitted. In the distraction of this madding fever I O benefit of ill I now I finde true That better is by evill still made better ; And ruin*d love, when it is built anew, Growes fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. So I retume rebuke to my content. And gaine by ills thrice more than I have spent That you were once unkind, befriends me now ; And for that sorrow, which I then did feele, Needes must I under my transgressions bow. Unless my nerves were brasse or hammer d Steele. For if you were by my unkindnesse shaken, As I by yours, y'havc pass'd a hell of time ; And I, a tyrant, have no leasure taken To waigh how once I suffer d in your crime. O that our night of woe might have remembred My deepest sence, how hard true sorrow hits. And soone to you, as you to me, then tendred The humble salve which wounded bosomes fits I But that your trespasse now becomes a fee ; Mine ransoms your's, and your*s must ransome me. Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all ; What hast thou then more than thou hadst before ? 112 siiakspkauk:. \o love, my love, that thou may 'st true love rail ; All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more. Then if for my love thou my love reeeivest, I cannot blame tliee, for mv love thou usest ; But yet be blamed, if thou thyselfe deceivest By wilful! taste of what thy selfe refusest. I doe forgive thy robb'ry, gentle thcefe, Although thou fciteale th<^e all my povertie ; And yet, love knowes, it is a greater griefe To hvaw love*s wrong, than hate's knowne injury. Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well showes. Kill me with spight ; yet we must not be foes. How sweete and lovely dost thou make the shame Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose. Doth spot the beautie of thy budding name ! O, in what sweets doest thou thy sinnes inclose I That tongue that tells the story of thy dayes, (Making lascivious comments on thy sport,) Cannot dispraise, but in a kiiul of praise : Naming thy name, blesses an ill report. O what a mansion have those vices got. Which for their habitation choose out thee I Where beautie's vaile doth cover every blot, And all things turne to faire that eyc?s can see ! Take heede, deare heart, of this large priviledge ; The hardest knife ill-used doth loose its edge. How oft, when thou, my musicke, musicke play\<»t, Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st The wiry concord that mine care confounds, Doe I envie those jackes, that nimble leape To kisse the tender inward of thy hand, Whilst my poore lips, which shcmld that harvest reape, At the wood's bouldnesse by thee blushing stand ! To be so tickled, they would change their state And situation with those dancing chips OVe whom thy fingers walke with gentle gate, Making dead wood more bless'd than living lips. Since saucie jackes so happy are in this, Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kisse. Thine eyes I love, and they, as pittying me, Knowing thy heart, tonnent me with disdaine ; SHAKSPEARE. 11.'^ Have put on blacke, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my painc. And truly not the morning sun of heaven Better becomes the gray cheekes of the east, Nor that full starre that ushers in the even, Doth halfe that glory to the sober west, As those two mourning eyes become thy face ; O let it then as well beseeme thy heart To moume for me, since mourning doth thee grace, And sure thy pitie like in every part. Then will I sweare beauty herselfe is blacko. And all they foule that thy complection lacke. So now I have confest that he is thine, And I myselfe am morgag'd to thy will ; Myselfe lie forfeit, so that other mine Thou wilt restore, to be my comfort still ; But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free^ For thou art covetous, and he is kinde ; He learned but, suretie-like, to write for me. Under that bond that him as fast doth binde. The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take. Thou usurer that put'st forth all to use. And sue a friend, came debtor for my sake ; So him I loose through my unkinde abuse. Him have I lost ; thou hast both him and me. He paies the whole, and yet I am not free. In loving thee thou know'st I am forswome. But thou art twice forswome to me love swearing ; In act thy bed-vow broke, and new faith tome, In vowing new hate after new love bearing. But why of two oathes* breach doe I accuse thee, When I breake twenty ? I am perjur'd most ; For all my vowes are oathes but to misuse thee. And all my honest faith in thee is lost : For I have swome deepe oathes of thy deepe kindenesse, Oathes of thy love, thy truth, thy constancie ; And to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindnesse. Or made them sweare against the thing they see ; For I have swome thee fair : more peijured I, To sweare, against the truth, so foule a lie ! 114- SIR HENRY WOTTON. Sir Hkmry Wotton wa« bom in 15r>R, at Boctoii Hal], Kent, of an ancient and honourable family. He wa» the younger (if four »on8, ui>on each of whom the honour of knighthood was eonferrek of white paper," says Izaak Walton, " which the German gentry usually carry about them." — Sir Henry wrote in Ias8ed ; tnd among his other productions are many of exceeding beauty, which touch the heart more than a host of those artificial thoughts and laboured oflbrtt at effbct so conspicuous in his more voluminous contemporaries. Wotton's two lines " upon the death of Sir Albert Morton's wife" have been Justly celebrated as containing a volume in seventeen words : — " He first deceai'd ; 8h« fur m little tri'd To live wiUiual bin i Uk'd It But, and di'd." VVOl'I'OX. A KAUK'.VKi.L !- » TMli VAN i'l I KS •>l- lllK WuUl.l). Faukwell, ye gilded t'(>lli«'s, phasing troubles ; Farewell, ye honourd rags, yv glorious hubbies; Fames but a hollow eeho; gohl pure elay ; Honour the darling but of* one sh(»rt day. Beauty, th' ey<^*s idol, but a dainiusk'd skin ; State but a golden ])rison to live in. And torture free-born minds: end)roiderM trains Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins; And blood JiUyM to greatness, is alontj Inherited, not purehasM nor our own, F'ame, honour, b(*auty. state, train, blood and birth, Are but the fading blossoms of the earth. r \IG WOTTON. I would be great, but that tlie sun doth still Level his rays against the rising hill : I would be higli, but see the proudest oak Most subjeet to the rending thunder-stroke : I would be rich, but see men, too unkind, Dig in the bowels of the richest mine : I would be wise, but that I often s(»e The fox Rusi)eetc!d, whilst the ass goes free : I would be fair, but see the fair and proud, Like the bright sun, oft setting in a clou household things to do ; Or to a Dryas, living in a tree : For e'en to trees this powV is proper to. And though the soul may not this pow'r extend Out of the body, but still use it there ; She hath a powV wliich she abroad doth send, Which views and searcheth all things ev'ry where. What is this knowledge ? but the sky-stolFn fire. For which the thief still chaiuM in ice doth sit ? And which the poor rude satyr did admire, And needs would kiss, but burnt his li}).s with it. What is it ? but the cloud of empty rain, Which when Jove*s gu(*st embraced, he monsters got ? Or the false pails, which oh being fiird with pain, Received the water, but retained it not ? In fine, what is it? but the fiery coach Which the youth sought, and sought his death witlial ? Or the boy's wings, which when he did approach The sun's hot beams, did melt and let him fall ? And yet, alas I when all our lamps are bunfd. Our bodies wasted, and our spirits spent ; When we have all the learned volumes turn*d W' hich yield men's wits both help and ornament : • What can we know, or what can we discern, AMien error clouds the windows of the mind ? The divers forms of things, how can" we learn. That have been ever from our birth-day blind ? When reason's lamp, which (like the sun in sky) Throughout man's little world her beams did spread, Is now become a sparkle, which doth lie Under the ashes, half extinct, and dead : How can we hope, that through the eye and ear, This dying sparkle, in this cloudy place, Can recollect these beams of knowledge clear, Which were infus*d in the first minds by grace ? DAVIKS. 121 80 might the heir, whose fatlier hath, in play, Wasted a thousand pounds of ancient rent. By painful earning of one groat a day, Hope to restore the patrimony s|>ent. If ought can teach us ought, afiiiction*s h)oks, (Making us pry into ourselves so near) Teach us to know ourselves, beyond all books. Or all the learned schools that ever were. This mistress lately pluck'd nie by the ear, And many a g(>ld(?n lesson hath me taught ; Hath made my senses quick, and reason clear ; ReformM my will, and rectify 'd my thought. So do the winds and thunders cleanse the air : So working s<^as settle and purge the wine : So lopp'd anm him his wife, to procure whom he was involved in a tedious and ruinous law-suit. His A'iend and biographer. Isaak Walton, has in his own simple and natural manner recorded the story of this young aiTection, and of the sad trials and pecimiary difltculties in which the poet and his wife were consequently involved: we have a beautiftil though a mournful picture of the struggles of a high and generous mind against the most galling of all troubles ; to him the more intolerable, because of her whom he had " transplanted into a wretched fortune," which he "laboured to disguise fh>m her by many honest devices." " Donne was of stature moderately tall, of a strait and eqiially proportioned body ; his aspect was cheerful, and such as gave a silent testimony of a clear-knowing soul, and of a conscience at peace with itself. His melting eye showed that he had a soft heart, fiill of noble compassion ; of too brave a soul to offer injuries, and too much a Christian not to pardon them in others." His Poems consist of " Songs and Sonnets," Epigrams, Elegies, Satires, Src. &c. — They appear rather as outbreaks of deep feeling, or reliefs to pressing troubles, than the produce of any settled purpose. His name as a poet is. however, largely known and esteemed — notwithstanding his perpetual affectations and the occasional un- measured harshness of his verse. Of his Satires, Dryden observed that they would be admired " if translated into numbers and English;'* — Pope acted upon this hint; but while he gave them roundness and polish, he lessened the value of th^ rough and rugged masses which the Poet had heaved ttom the quarry of human life. The specimens we have given will abundantly prove that all the compositions of Donne were not careless and uncouth. Some of them indeed are, by comparison, smooth even to elegance. His faults are, that he has made the natural subordinate to the artificial— that he has little of simplicity and less of taste— that he has laboured to render himself obscure rather than intelligible; — and. although his productions are liable to any complaint but that of poverty, that he has crowded thought upon thought and image upon image, with so little skill or care to effect-^ has, in fiset, so mingled beauties with deformities, that those who look with but a casual glance perceive only objects that dishearten them from desiring a nearer and more scrutiniz- ing view. He was absolutely saturated with learning — his intellect was large and searching- his fancy rich, although fantastic — and his wit playfUl yet caustic. At times he is fUU of tenderness : and in spite of himself submits to the mastery of nature. It is no slight tribute to the muse of Donne, that Jonson learnt some of his verses by heart; and our readers will at least agree with "Old Ben" in his admiration of a passage in which a Calm is described as so perfect, that " in onr plate \*y realbers bbiI (Iu«l lo day an«l )ealrrda)." J.)ONNK. THK SIOKM. The soutli and west winds joyn'd, and, as they blew. Waves like a rowling trench before them threw. Sooner than you read this line did the gale, Like shot, not fear'd till felt, our sailes assaile ; And what at first was eall'd a gust, the same Hath now a stormes, anon a tempest's name. Jonas I I pitty thee, and curse those men Who, when the storm rag'd most, did wake thee then. Sleepe is paines easiest salve, and doth fullfill All offices of death except to kill. But when I wak'd, I saw that I saw not ; I and the sunne, which should teach me, liad forgot East, west, day, night; and I could onely say. If the world had lasted, now it had beene day. 12i DONNE. Thousands our uoyscs were, yc»t we *niongst all Could none by his right name but thunder call. Lightning was all our light, and it rain'd more Than if the sunne had drunke the sea before. Some cottin'd in their cabbins lye, equally Gric'v'd that they are not dead, and yet must dye ; And as sin-bunrued soulc»s from grave will creepe At the last day, some forth their cabbins peepe, And, treml)lingly, aske what newes ? and doe hear so As jealous husbands, what they would not know. Some, sitting on the hatches, would seeme there, With hideous gazing, to feare away Feare : There note they the ship's sicknesses, the mast Shak*d with an ague, and the hold and waist With a salt dropsic clog'd, and our tacklings Snapping, like too high-stretched treble strings, An(l from our totter'd sailes raggs drop downe so As from one hangVl in chaines a yeere ago : Even our ordinance, placM for our defence. Strive to l)reake loose, and 'scape away from thence : Pumping hath tir\l our men, and what's the giiine ? Seas into seas thn)wne we suck in againe : Hearing hath d(;af 'd our saylors ; and if they Knew how to heare, there's none knowes what to say. Compar d to these stormes, death is but a qualme, Ilell somewhat lightsome, the Bermud a calme. Darknesse, Light's eldest brother, his birth-right Claimd o'er this world, and to heaven hath chas'd light. All things arc one ; and that one none can be, Since all formes uniforme deformity Doth cover ; so that wee, except God say Another Fiat, shall have no more day : So violent, yet long these furies bee. That though thine absence sterve mee I wish not thee. T}IK GOOD-MOnUOW. 1 WONDER, by my troth, what thou, and I Did, till we lov'd ! W'erc we not wean'd till then. But suck'd on countrey pleasures childishly ? Or snorted wc? in the seven-sleeper's den ? 'Twa.s so ; but thus all pleasures fancies bee. DONNE. 125 If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desir d, and got, *twas but a drcanu; of thee. And now good-morrow to our waking soules, Which watch not one another out of feare ; For love, all love of other sights controules, And makes one little roome, an everj'-where. Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone, Let maps to other worlds our world have showne, Let us possesse one world ; each hath one, and is one. My face in thine eye, thine in mine appeares. And true plaine hearts doe in the faces rest. Where can we finde two fitter hemisj)heares Without sharp North, without declining West ? Whatever dyes was not niixt equally ; If our two loves be one, or, thou and I Love so alike, that none doe slackc^n, none can die. THE WILL. Before I sigh my last gaspe, let me breath, Great Love, some legacies ; 1 here bequeath Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see. If they be blinde, then. Love, I give them thee ; My tongue to Fame ; to ambassadours mine ears ; To women or the sea, my teares. Thou, Love, hast taught mee heretofore By making mee serve her who had twenty more. That I should give to none, but such, as had too much before. My constancie I to the planets give. My truth to them, who at the court doe live ; Mine ingenuity and opennesse To Jesuites ; to buifones my pensivenesse ; My silence to any, who abroad hath been ; My money to a capuchin. Thou, Love I taught*st me, by appointing mee To love there, where no love received can be, Onely to give to such as have an incapacitic. My faith I give to Roman Catholiques ; All my good works unto the schismaticks Of Amsterdam ; my best civility And courtship to an uuiversitie : J 26 DONNE. My modesty I give to souldiers bare ; My patience let gamester s share. Thou, Love, taught*st mce, by making mee Love her that holds my love disparity, Onely to give to those that count my gifts indignity. I give my reputation to those Which were my friends ; mine Industrie to foes : To schoolemen I bequeath my doubtfulnesse ; My sicknesse to physitians or excesse ; To Nature, all that I in rj-me have writ ; And to my company my wit Thou, Love, by making mee adore Her, who begot this love in mee before, Taught'st me to make, as though I gave, when I did but restore. To him for whom the passing-bell next tolls, I give my physick books ; my written rowles Of morall counsels, I to Bedlam give ; My brazen medals, unto them which live In want of bread ; to them which passe among All forraigners, mine English tongue. Thou, Love, by making mee love one Who thinkes her friendship a fit portion For yonger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion. Therefore 111 give no more, but 1*11 undoe The world by dying ; because Love dies too. Then all your beauties will bee no more worth Then gold in mines, where none doth draw it forth ; And all your graces no more use shall have Then a sun dyal in a grave. Thou, Love, taught'st mee, by making mee Love her, who doth neglect both mee and thee, To invent, and practise this one way, to annihilate all three. THE BAIT. Come, live with mee and bee my love, And wee will some new pleasures prove Of golden sands and christall brookes, With silken lines and silver hookes. DONNE. 127 There will the river whispering runne, Warm'd by thy eyes more than the sunne ; And there the inamor d fish will stay, Begging themselves they may betray. When thou wilt swimme in that live bath. Each fish, which every channell hath, Will amorously to thee swimme. Gladder to catch thee, than thou him. If thou, to be so scene, art loath By sunne or moone, thou dark'nest both ; And if myselfe have leave to see, I need not their light, having thee. Let others freeze with angling reeds. And cut their legges, with shells and weeds, Or treacherously poore fish beset With strangling snare or windowie net : Let coarse bold hands, from slimy nest The bedded fish in banks qut-wrest. Or curious traitors, sleave-silke flies, Bewitch poore fishes* wand'ring eyes : For thee, thou need*st no such deceit. For thou thyselfe art thine owne Bait ; That fish that is not catch'd thereby, Alas, is wiser farre then I. LOVE'S DEITIE. I LONG to taike with some old lover s ghost. Who dyed before the god of love was borne : I cannot thinke that hee, who then lov'd most, Sunke so low, as to love one which did scorne : But since this god produced a destinie, And that vice-nature, custome, lets it be, I must love her, that loves not mee : Sure, they which made him god, meant not so much, Nor he, in his young godhead practised it. But when an even flame two hearts did touch. His office was indulgently to fit Actives to passives ; correspondencie V2H DONNE. Only Lis subject was ; it cannot bee Love, till I love her that loves raee. But every moderne god will now extend His vast prerogative as far as Jove, To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, All is the purlewe of the god of love. Oh ! were wee wakned by this tyrannic To ungod this child againe, it could not bee I should love her, who loves not mee. Rebell and Atheist too, why murmure I, As though I felt the worst that love could doe ? Love may make me leave loving, or might trie A deeper plague, to make her love mee too, * Which, since she loves before, I am loth to see Falsehood is worse than hate ; and that must bee. If shee whom I love, should love mee. liREAKE OF LUY. 'Tis true, 't is day, what though it be ? O I wilt thou therefore rise from me ? Why should we rise, because *t is light ? Did we lie down, because 't was night ? Love which, in spight of darkness, brought us hither. Should, in despight of light keepe us together. Light hath no tongue, but is all eye ; If it could speake as well as spie. This were the worst, that it could say. That being well, I faine would stay, And that I lov'd my heart and honor so. That I would not from him, that had them, go. Must businesse thee from hence remove ? Oh, that *8 the worst disease of love. The poore, the foule, the false, love can Admit, but not the busied man. He which hath businesse, and makes love, dpth doc Such wrong, as when a maryed man doth wooe. ^ DONNE. rii) THE MES5SAGE. Send home my long stray d eyes to mee, Which, (oh) too long have dwelt on thee, Yet since there they have learn'd such ill, Such forc*d fashions And false passions, That they be Made by thee Fit for no good sight, keep them still. Send home my harmlesse heart againe, Which no unworthy thought could staine, Which if it be taught by thine To make jestings Of protestings, And breake both Word and oath, Keepe it, for then *t is none of mine. Yet send me back my heart and eyes, That I may know, and see thy lyes. And may laugh and joy, when thou Art in anguish And dost languish For some one That will none. Or prove as false as thou art now. THE LEGACY. When I dyed last, and, Deare, I dye As often as from thee I goe, Though it be but an houre agoe. And lovers houres be full eternity, I can remember yet, that I Something did say, and something did bestow ; Though I be dead, which sent mee, I might be Mine owne executor and legacie. I heard mee say, Tell her anon That my selfe, that 's you, not I, Did kill me, and when I felt mee dye, I bid mee send my heart, when I was gone. But I alas could there finde none. When I had ripp*d me and searched where hearts should lye, s 130 DONNE. It kiird mee again, that I who still was true In life, in my last will should cozen you. Yet I found something like a heart, But colours it and corners had, It was not good, it was not bad. It was intire to none, and few had part. As good as could be made by art It seem'd, and therefore for our losses sad, I meant to send this heart in stead of mine ; But oh, no man could hold it, for 't was thine. BONG. Sweetest Love, I do not goe For wearinesse of thee. Nor in hope the world can show A fitter love for mee ; But since that I Must dye at last, 't is best, To use myselfe in jest Thus by fain'd death to dye. Yesternight the sunne went hence. And yet is here to-day. He hath no desire nor sense, Nor halfe so short a way: Then feare not mee, But beleeve that I shall make Speedier journey es, since I take More wings and spurres then hec. O how feeble is man's power, That if good fortune fall, Cannot adde another houre, Nor a lost houre recall ? But come bad chance, And wee joine to it our strength, And wee teach it art and length, Itselfe or us t' advance. When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not winde. But sigh'st my soule away, When thou weep'st, unkindly kinde, My life's blood doth decay. ^ DONNE. 131 It cannot bee « That thou lov*8t mee, as thou say'st ; If in thine my life thou waste, That art the best of mee. Let not thy divining heart Forethinke me any ill, Destiny may take thy part, And may thy feares fultiil ; But thinke that wee Are but turn'd aside to sleepe ; They who one another keepe Alive, ne'er parted bee. KONG. GoE, and catche a falling starre, Get with child a mandrake roote, Tell me, where all past yeares are. Or who cleft the divels foot. Teach me to heare mermaides singing. Or to keep off envies stinging. And finde what winde Serves to advance an honest minde. If thou beest borne to strange sights. Things invisible to see, Rede ten thousand daies and nights, Till age snow white haires on thee. Thou, when thou retom'st, wilt tell mee All strange wonders that befell thee. And sweare no where Lives a woman true, and faire. If thou iindst one, let mee know. Such a pilgrimage were sweet, Yet doe not, I would not goe. Though at next doore wee might meet. Though shee were true, when you met her, And last, till you write your letter. Yet shee will bee False, ere I come, to two, or three. 132 BENJAMIN JONSON. BiMJAMiN J|^80N, u the name stood in the pari«h register— Ben Jonson, as it stands in the register of immortals— the posthumous child of a humble minister of the Church, was bom within the City of Westminster early in the year 1574. His youth owed much to the kindness of a fHend, who sent him to the Westminster Foundation ; and but little to the ignorance of his bricklaying step&ther, who thought it right to withdraw him fh>m such untradesmanlike studies. Ultimately, after a series of many troubles, incidents in the lives of all who struggle for themselves to great- ness, foils which make success " stick fiery off indeed," Ben Jonson triumphed over the many disadvantages which had beset him ; mastered entrance to the theatres which had been closed to him; proved himself one of their greatest intellectual servants; and forced fh>m the genius of the time so firee an acknowledgment of his own, that the members of the Club founded by Sir Walter Raleigh at the Mermaid,— the Shak- speares, the Beaumonts, the Fletchers, the Seldens, the Cottons, the Carews,— placed him by general consent in its chair— the town-chair, thereafter, of wit and scholar- ship—where he sat, in all the pomp and heraldry of letters, and received petitions from young poets " to be sealed of tl;c tribe of Ben." The laurel of the court was afterwards given to him ; and from that period, until death, he was incessantly ooca- pied upon the masques, the poems, the comedies, and the tragedies — the Woakb, as he proudly calls them— which have immortalised his name. He died on the 6th of August, 1637. Three days after he was laid in Westminster Abbey, one of his con> vivial associates happened to pass up the aisle as a stone-cutter was replacing the pavement over the grave, and in a genuine impulse of the moment, gave the man eighteen-pencc to carve the now celebrated epitaph, " O rare Ben Jonson !" Rare he was indeed, personally as well as intellectually. He had constitutional infirmities to struggle with, but his heart was fUll of humanity. Sturdy and plain- spoken he unquestionably was, for he could send back a message to a king firom whom a tardy and slight gratuity had come to him in his poverty and sickness—" I suppose he sends me this because I live in an alley; tell him his soul lives in an alley.** Severe too he was, at times, but that need not be urged as a reproach. One thing he never was, the canker and the curse of all social intercourse, indiferent. He had, in truth, a heart, which beat always strongly, whether for praise or blame. He was not a " contemner and scomer of others," for he has written the highest and most affection- ate panegyrics on his contemporaries of any man that lived in his age. A " lover of himself" he might be, but yet he had a noble distrust of that affection ; and a little vanity may be Mx\y enough allowed to one who was placed on a sort of critical Judgment-seat by the consent of his greatest fellow-labourers in letters. His personal appearance, his " mountain belly," and his " rocky fkce," he has himself described. " He was of a clear and fair skin," says Aubrey; " his habit was very plain." Ben Jonson's intellect was vast and solid— with a wonderfiilly reflective as well as creative power. His learning was as great as his intellect, and subject as freely to his will. His strong sense, his industry, and humour, were equally prodigious. The mind staggers at the anuucing power with which he mined and worked his way under the surfaces of things, and brought up those weighty, yet common lifb, creations, Epicures Mammon, mine Hosts various, Bobadils, and Meercrafts. Here, however, we have little to do with these various characteristics. In his poems fancy has chief way— fancy, the most genial, and perhaps, after all, the most delightful of his attri- butes. Infinitely delicate and piquant it is, as our extracts prove — delicious in its tender sense of natural beauty, and playfully fantastic in expression. It is scarcely necessary to indicate in one or two of the poems we have given, an occasional throw- ing in of the mechanical with the fancifUl— and a few pedantic touches which look as if designed merely to set off more strikingly the exquisite and natural delicacies around them. Sense and feeling, classical sentiment, and a fine taste for rural imagery, characterize his friendly epistles. In the lines to Beaumont, it is delightful to mark the involuntary yet manly fondness with which he confesses to his friend's praise. With this proof of a gentle and amiable mind, and of a disposition any thing but gross and overweening, we leave to the reader these thoughts of Rare Ben Jonson;— adding merely, in the emphatic words of a friend and contemporary, " he writ aU like a man." It ia no commoti cause, yee v My lovely Graces, makes your goddesse leave Her state in heaven, to night, to visit earth ; Love late is fled away, my eldest birth, Cupid, whom I did joy to call my sonne ; And, whom, long absent, Venus is undone. Spie, if you can, his footsteps on the greene ; For here, aa I am told, he late hath beene. With divers of his breth'ren, lending light From their best flames to gild a glorious night; Which I not grudge at, being done for her Whose honours to mine own I still prefer ; 134 JON SON. But he Dot yet returning, I'm in feare Some gentle Grace or innocent beautie here, Be taken with him ; or he hath surprised A second Psyche, and lives here disguis'd. I will have him cry'd And all his vertues told ; that when they know What spright he is, shee soone may let him goe, That guards him now, and think herselfe right blest. To be so timely rid of such a guest. Begin soft Graces, and proclaim reward To her that bril^ him in. Speake to be heard. Beauties, have yee scene this toy. Called Love, a little boy. Almost naked, wanton, blind, Cruell now ; and then as kind ? If he be amongst yee, say ; He is Venus run-away. Shee that will but now discover Where the winged wag doth hover. Shall, to-night, receive a kisse, How, or where her selfe would wish : But who brings him to his mother, Shall have that kisse, and another. H' hath of markes about him plentie : You shall know him, among twentie. All his body is a fire. And hb breath a flame entire, That being shot, like lightning, in. Wounds the heart, but not the skin. At his sight, the sunne hath turned, Neptune in the waters burned ; Hell hath felt a greater heate ; Jove himselfe forsooke his seate : From the center to the skie, Are his trophaees reared hie. Wings he hath, which though yee clip, He will leape from lip to lip, JONSON. 135 Over liver, lights, and heart, But not stay in any part ; And, if chance hb arrow misses. He will shoot himselfe, in kisses. He doth beare a golden bow And a quiver, hanging low, Full of arrowes, that out-brave Dian's shafts : where, if he have Any head more sharpe then other, With that first he strikes his mother. Still the fairest are his fuell, When his daies are to be cruell, Lovers hearts are all his food ; And his baths their warmest bloud : Nought but wounds his hand doth season ; And he hates none like to Reason. Trust him not : his words, though sweet, Seldome with his heart doe meet. All his practise is deceit ; Every gifl it is a bait ; Not a kisse but poyson beares ; And most treason in his teares. Idle minutes are his raigne ; Then the straggler makes his gaine, By presenting maids with toyes, And would have yee thinke 'hem joyes : 'Tis the ambition of the elfe, To have all childish as himselfe. If by these yee please to know him. Beauties, be not nice, but show him. Though yee had a will to hide him, Now, we hope, yee'le not abide him, Since yee heare his falser play, And that he is Venus run-away. L% JONSON. TO PENSIIURST. Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show, Of touch, or marble ; nor canst boast a row Of polish'd pillars, or a roofe of gold : Thou hast no lantheme, whereof tales are told ; Or stayre, or courts ; but stand'st an ancient pile, And these grudg'd at, are reverenc'd the while. Thou joy'st in better markes, of soyle, of ayre. Of wood, of water : therein thou art faire. Thou hast thy walkes for health, as well as sport : Thy Mount, to which the Dryads doe resort. Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made. Beneath the broad beech, and the chestnut shade ; That taller tree, which of a nut was set. At his great birth, where all the Muses met There, in the writhed barke, are cut the names Of many a Sylvane, taken with his flames. And thence, the ruddy Satyres oft provoke The lighter Faunes to reach thy Ladies oke. Thy copps, too, nam'd of Gamage, thou hast there, That never failes to serve thee seasoned deere, When thou would'st feast or exercise thy friends. The lower land, that to the river bends, Thy sheepe, thy bullocks, kine, and calves doe feed : The middle grounds thy mares and horses breed. Each bauke doth yeeld thee coneycs ; and the topps Fertile of wood, Ashore, and Sydney's copps, To crowne thy open table, doth provide The purpled pheasant, with the speckled side : The painted partrich lyes in every field. And, for thy messe, is willing to be killed. And if the high swolne Medway faile thy dish, Thou hast thy ponds, that pay thee tribute fish, Fat, aged carps, that runne into thy net, And pikes, now weary their owne kinde to eat, As loth, the second draught, or cast to stay, Ofificiously, at first, themselves betray. Bright eeles, that emulate them, and leape on land, Before the fisher, or into his hand. Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers, Fresh as the ayre, and new as are the houres. The earely cherry, with the later plum. Fig, grape, and quince, each in hb time doth come : JONSON. 137 The blushing apricot, and woolly peach Hang on thy walls, that ever}' child may reach. And though thy walls be of the countrey stone. They're rear'd with no mans mine, no mans grone. There's none that dwell about them, wish them downe ; But all come in, the farmer and the clowne. And no one empty-handed, to salute Thy lord and lady, though they have no sute. Some bring a capon, some a rurall cake. Some nuts, some apples ; some that thinke they make The better cheeses, bring 'hem ; or else send By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend This way to husbands ; and whose baskets bearer An embleme of themselves, in plum or pea re. But what can this (more then expresse their love) Adde to thy free provisions, farre above The neede of such ? whose liberall boord doth flow, With all that hospitalitie doth know ! Where comes no guest, but is allow'd to eate, Without his feare, and of thy lords owne meate : Where the same beere, and bread, and selfe-same wine, That is his Lordships, shall be also mine. And I not faine to sit (as some, this day. At great mens tables) and yet dine away. Here no man telb my cups ; nor, standing by, A waiter doth my gluttony envy : But gives me what I call, and lets me eate, He knowes, below, he shall finde plentie of meate, Thy tables hoord not up for the next day, Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray For fire, or lights, or livorie : all is there ; As if thou, then, wert mine, or I raign'd here : There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay. That found King James, when, hunting late this way, With his brave sonne, the prince, they saw thy fires Shine bright on every harth as the desires Of thy Penates had beene set on flame. To entertayne them ; or the countrey came. With all their zeale, to wanne their welcome here. What (great, I will not say, but) sodayne cheare Didst thou, then, make 'hem I and what praise was heap'd On thy good lady, then I who, therein, reap'd The just reward of her high huswifery ; To have her linnen, plate, and all things nigh. IS8 JONSOX. When shee was farre : and not a roome, but drest As if it had expected such a guest I These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all. Thy lady's noble, fruitfull, chaste withall. His children thy great lord may call his owne : A fortune, in this age, but rarely knowne. They are, and have been taught religion : thence Their gentler spirits have suck'd innocence. Each morne and even they are taught to pray, With the whole household, and may, every day, Reade, in their vertuous parents noble parts. The mysteries of manners, armes, and arts. Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee With other edifices, when they see Those proud, ambitious heaps, and nothing else, May say, their lords have built, but thy lord dwells. THE SWEET NEGLECT. FaoM THE SILKKT WOMAN. Still to be neat, still tt> be drest. As you were going to a feast ; Still to be pou'dred, still perfumed : Lady, it is to be presum*d. Though arts hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a looke, give me a face. That makes simplicitie a grace ; Robes loosely flowing, haire as free : Such sweet neglect more taketh me, Then all th* adulteries of art : They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. KCHO ON NARCISSUS. FROM CYMTfllA'S RBTBLLS. Slow, slow, fresh fount, keepe time nyth my salt teares ; Yet slower, yet, d faintly gentle springs : List to the heavy part the musique beares. Woe weepes out her division, when shee sings. JONSON. 139 Droupe hearbs, and flowres ; Fall griefe in showres ; Our beftuties are not ours : O, I could still (Like melting snow upon some craggie hill,) Drop, drop, drop, drop, Since Natures pride is, now, a wither d dafTodill. TO CELIA. Drinke to me, onely with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine ; Or leave a kisse but in the cup, And He not looke for wine. The thirst, that from the soule doth rise, Doth aske a drinke divine : But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath. Not so much honoring thee. As giving it a hope that there It could not withered bee. But thou thereon did*st onely breath. And sent'st it backe to mee : Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare. Not of it selfe, but thee. HYMNE TO DIANA. FROM CTMTHIA's K£V£LL8. Queen E, and huntresse, chaste, and faire, Now the sunne is laid to slecpe, Seated, in thy silver chaire, State in wonted manner keepe : Hesperus intreats thy light, Goddesse, excellently bright. Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare it selfe to interpose ; Cynthias shining orbe was made Heaven to cleere, when day did close : # 140 JONSON. Bless us then with wished sight, Goddesse, excellently bright. Lay thy bow of pearle apart, And thy cristall-shining quiver ; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever Thou that mak*st a day of night, Goddesse, excellently bright. SONG. raOM TUE POBTASTEA. If I freely may discover. What would please me in my lover : I would have her faire, and wittie. Savouring more of court, then cittie ; A little proud, but full of pittie : Light, and humorous in her toying, Oft building hopes, and soone destroying. Long, but sweet in the enjoying. Neither too easie, nor too hard : All extremes I would have bar'd. Shee should be allowed her passions. So they were but us'd as fashions ; Sometimes froward, and then frowning. Sometimes sickish, and then swowniug. Every fit, with change, still crowning. Purely jealous, I would have her, Then onely constant when I crave her 'Tis a vertue should not save her. Thus, nor her delicates would cloy me, Neither her peevishnesse annoy me. 80NG. pnou THE roxE. Come, my Celia, let us prove. While we can, the sports of love ; Time will not be ours for ever, He, at length, our good will sever ; JONSON. 14*1 Spend not then his gifts in vaiiie, Sunnes, that set, may rise againe: But if, once, we lose this light, 'Tis with us perpetuall night. Why should wee deferre our joyes ? Fame, and rumor are but toies ; Cannot we delude the eyes Of a few poore houshold-spies ? Or his easier eares beguile. Thus remooved, by our wile ? 'Tis no sinne, loves fruits to steale But the sweet thefts to reveale : To be taken, to be scene. These have crimes accounted beene. EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH L. H. Woulds't thou heare what man can say In a little ? Reader, stay. Under-neath this stone doth lye As much beautie as could dye : Which in life did harbour give To more vertue then doth live. If, at all, shee had a fault, Leave it buryed in this vault One name was Elizabeth, TTi' other let it sleepe with death : Fitter, where it dyed, to tell, Then that it liv'd at all. Farewell. TO FRANCIS BEAUMONT. How I doe love thee, Beaumont, and thy muse, That unto me dost such religion use I How I doe feare my selfe, that am not worth Tlie least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth ! At once thou mak'st me happie, and unmak'st ; And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st What fate is mine, that so it selfe bereaves ? What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives ? When even there, where most thou praysest mee. For writing better, I must envie thee. i 142 RICHARD CORBET. Richard Corbet, *' wittie Bishop Corbet," wm bom in the village of Ewell in Surrey, in the year 1 582 ; hia father, of whom Ben Jonson spoke in terms of high praiaef was " either by taste or trade," a gardener. His son was educated at Westminster, and elected thence a student of Christ Church, Oxford ; where he took his degree in 1605, and entered into holy orders. In I6I2, he was deputed, as one of the Proctors of the University, to pronounce a (Uneral oration on the death of Henry Prince of Walea. Having rapidly obtained ecclesiastical promotion, and, by his eloquence and his wit, succeeded in greatly gratifying the humour of James the First, in 1629 he was elected Bishop of Oxford; and in 1 632, translated to the see of Norwich. He died in July, I6S5. He was distinguished as " the witty Bishop," yet of ** no deatructiTe nature, to any who offended him, counting himself plentiAilly repaired with a Jest upon him ;" but it must be admitted that he was often more merry than wise ; and not unArequently forgetf\il of the sacredness of his high office. The records that have been preserved of his pleasant sayings would go near to fill a volume. It appears that he could seldom control his " din," either with reference to time or place. On one occasion, while his reverence was confirming, and the country people pressing forward to witness the ceremony, he said " bearc off there, or 111 confirm ye with my staffe ;" on another, while laying hands on a bald man he asked for " some dust,** to keep his hand fhnn slipping ; and on another, observing before him a man with a large beard, he caUed to him, "you behind the beard." He would sometimes go with a crony into a wine cellar, put aside his episcopal hood, and say " there layes the doctor," then put off his gowne, and say " there layes the bishop," then turn to his companion, and say *' and now, here's to thee ! " A ballad singer having once complained to the doctor that he lacked custom, they thereupon exchanged Jackets, and the doctor being a handsome man, and having a rare flill voice, had soon a great audience, and vended much of the poor man's ware. Yet he is described as having '* an admirably grave and venerable aspect," and he undoubtedly possessed " Maeh good hnmoar Joined to toHd mbm. And mirth acoonp«nied with lanoceBce.** The records of his life have preserved nothing that had its origin in littleness of mind, malice, or even ill-nature. His Poems are ftill of feeling and humour ; but few of them have escaped oblivion. They are of a miscellaneous description — consisting chiefly of elegy, satire and song. His Poetica Stromata were written in his youth, and not designed for publication. The Iter Boreale is a sort of imitation of Horace's Journey to Brundusium, and relates the tour of four university men — describing the places they visited and the varioiu characters they met on their way. But as with most others of his poems, the sulject has lost its interest with the changes in the manners it describes. His Journey into France is however an exception, the satire being more general. His works were first collected and published in 1647 ; and in an edition of 1672, the editor Informs his patron to whom the publication is dedicated, that " the most pious of the clergy have made use of the innocent art of poesy, not only for their pleasant diversion but their most fervent devotion." We have selected two of the merry Bishop's poems, one because of Its pleasant humour and the picture it gives of the times ; the other because of its sound practical sense. There is gaiety, llghtheartedness, and a flow of animal spirits in aU he wrote. He was, it is true, occasionally stimulated by his dislike of Puritanism— the great theme of praise or abuse of the wits of his time, and especially of the time which fol- lowed—but Corbet was not the only Churchman who indulged his vein of fkncy at the expense of his more sober brethren. It is however more than probable that his compositions, although sportive rather than ill-natured, and never displi^ing a bitter spirit, were considered even by himself, as in very ill-keeping with the sacred dutitis of his high office and profession, and that the greater portion of them were not intended to meet the eye of the world. A Bishop-Poet is a rata avit; and it is principally for this reason we have given specimens of his works. The Fairies Farewell was originally published under a whimsical title : ** to be sung or whistled to the tune of the Meddow Brow, by the learned : bj the unlearned to the tune of Fortune." Farewell rowards and Fairies ! Good housewives now you may pay ; For now foule sluts in dairies, Doe fare as well aa they : And though they sweepe their hearthn no l< Than mayds were wont to doci Yet who of late for cleaneliness Finds sixe-pence in her shoe ? Lament, lament old Abbies, The fairies lost command ; They did but change priests babies, But some have chang'd your land : 1 H CORBET. And all your children stoln from thence Are now growne Puritanes, Who live as changelings ever since, For love of your demaines. At morning and at evening both You merry were and glad, 80 little care of sleepe and sloth, Tliese prettie ladies had. When Tom came home from labour, Or Ciss to milking rose. Then merrily went their tabour, And nimbly went their toes. Witness those rings and rounddelayes Of theirs, which yet rcmaine ; Were footed in queene Maries dayes On many a grassy playne. But since of late Elizabeth And later James came in ; They never danc*d on any heath. As when the time hath bin. By which wee note the fairies Were of the old profession : Their songs were Ave Maries, Their dances were procession. But now, alas I they all are dead, Or gone beyond the seas. Or farther for religion fled. Or else they take their ease. A tell-tale in their company TTiey never could endure ; And whoso kept not secretly Their mirth, was punished sure : It was a just and christian deed To pinch such blacke and blue : O how the common-welth doth need Such justices as you I Now they have left our quarters ; A Register they have. Who can preserve their charters ; A man both wise and grave. CORBET. J 4.5 An hundred of their merry pranks By one that I could name Are kept in store ; con twenty thanks To William for the same. To William Churne of Staffordshire Give laud and praises due, Who every meale can mend your eheare With tides both old and true : To William all give audience, And pray yee for his noddle ; For all the fairies evidence Were lost, if it were addle. TO HIS SON VINCENT CORDET. What I shall leave thee none can tell, But all shall say I wish thee w(?ll : I wish thee, Vin, before all wealth, Both bodily and ghostly health ; Nor too much wealth, nor wit come to thee, So much of either may undo thee. I wish thee learning, not for show, Enough for to instruct, and know ; Not such as gentlemen require To prate at table, or at fire. I wish thee all thy mother's graces. Thy father's fortunes, and his places. I wish thee friends, and one at court Not to build on, but support ; To keep thee, not in doing many Oppressions, but from sufi'ering any. I wish thee peace in all thy ways. Nor lazy nor contentious days ; And when thy soul and body part, As innocent as now thou art. u 146 PHINEAS FLETCHER. Phinbas FLXTcnsK, the son of Dr. Giles Fletcher, " a learned man and an excel- lent poet," was bom in the year 1584. He was educated at Eton, and elected to King's College, Cambridge ; where he took his degree in 1604. He entered into iuAj orders, and was beneficed, in 1621, at Hilgay, in Norfolk — a living which he held during twenty-nine years, and where, probably, he died in 1650. Of the life of the Poet little else is known. His course appears to have been easy and unroffled; alto- gether flree, indeed, Arom the diflBculties and vexations which so commonly attend the followers of the Muses. His years glided by, untouched by care;— his dutiea wen those of a country clergyman, active only as regarded the Ainctions of his sacred office ; and his ci^oyments the pursuits of Literature, which he cultivated not aa a business but as a relaxation ; depending upon it mainly for his pleasures, but not resorting to it as a means of subsistence — a position to be envied, more especially when contrasted with the toils, troubles, or intrigues, which mark the career of nearly all the more dis- tinguished of his contemporaries. If he failed in obtaining popularity, he was amply compensated by emancipation trom those bonds in which society holds its fiivourites, and by the praise, so lavishly bestowed upon him, of a few choice spirits, who had sense and liberality enough to estimate his learning, his piety, and his poetry. By one of the most eminent among them, he is complimented — at some expense of truth — as the " Spenser of his age." The Poems of Phineas Fletcher were, for the most part, written in early life. They were originally published in 1633, and the Dedication describes them as "blooms of his first spring" — "raw essays of his very unripe years and almost childhood." They consist of the Purple Island ; Piscatory Eclogues ; and various miscellaneous pieces. The Piscatory Fxrlogues are smooth and graceful — ^but no more. The sul^ect has been lauded by certain critics as possessing advantages over the Pastoral : but it was rightly condenmed by Mr. Addison. Coleridge, in a MS. note, describes ft aa necessarily foiling to excite human sympathies ;— from elementary causes, he observea, " i. e. independently of accidental associations, our feelings have nothing JUkp in them." And he attributes this to " the coldness, the slime, the impracticability (in a word) of the habits" of the sea and water-dwellers— and also to their voicelessnesa, their being the ready victims of death and deceit— so that they are always aa food. Fletcher has, indeed, done little with a theme so unpropitious. Among his miscellaneous pieces the reader will find many of rare beauty ; and in his Elegies there is a tone of deep sadness, admirably in keeping with the solemnity of the subjects. But the work by which Phineas Fletcher is best known to fome is the Purple Island— a title so inapplicable that we are at a loss to guess why it was so called. Indeed the Poet himself seems to have been aware of the difficulty, when he added to it — " or the Isle of Man." It is, in fact, a rhymed lecture on anatomy : the Isle being the human body, with its bones, muscles, arteries, and veins, pictured as so many hills and dales, streams and rivers. Having described them with tedious and prosaic minuteness, he enters upon a branch of his subject somewhat more poetical — the qua- lities of the mind. The Virtues, under the command of Electra, or Intellect, are encountered by the Vices, and after a severe struggle are about to yield, when sud- denly they achieve conquest by the help of a good angel — the angel being no other than our Sovereign Lord the King, James, by the grace of God, kc This small cir- cumstance is sufficient proof of the Poet's bad taste;— he who could so fki forget the nature of his high calling as to pander thus to the gross love of flattery which charac^ terised the meanest of the Stuarts, may not be expected to be over nice. Many of his images are coarse ; others reach the remotest limits of the fontastic ; and his obscuritiea are so flrequent as to render his foot-notes absolutely necessary. But if there are faults — and large faults— in the Purple Island, there are, undoubt- edly, beauties of the rarest order. Fletcher is accused of imitating Spenser, and it ia a charge he had no desire to traverse — " to lacky him was all his pride's aspiring." Although to read the whole of his long poem would be a wearisome task, he deservedly ranks high among the Poets of our country— so spirit-stirring is the occasional bdd- ness of his thoughts and the loftiness of his style ; so striking is the brilliancy of hia colouring, and so eflective is the energy with which he, at times, Infuses life into the dullest things he touches. PHINKAS FLKTCllKR. FUUM THK rUUi'LE ISLAND. THE shepherd's HOME. Thrice, oh, thrice happic shepherd's life and state When courts arcj happinesse, unhappie pawns ! His eottafje low, and safely humble gate, . Shuts out proud Fortune, with her scorns, and fawns No feared treason breaks his (piiet sleep : Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep ; Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep. No S(?rian worms he knows, that with their threed Draw out their silken lives : — nor silken pride : 148 PIIINEAS FLETCHEK. His lambes* warm fleece well fits his little need, Not in that proud Sidonian tincture di*d : No emptie hopes, no courtly fears him fright ; No begging wants his middle fortune bite : But sweet content exiles both miserie and spite. Instead of music and base flattering tongues, Which wait to first-salute my lord's uprise ; The cheerfull lark wakes him with early songs. And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes. In countrey playes is all the strife he uses ; Or sing, or dance, unto the rurall Muses ; And but in music's sports, all difference refuses. His certain life, that never can deceive him, Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content : The smooth-leav'd beeches in the field receive him With coolest shades, till noon-tide's rage is spent : His life is neither tost in boist'rous seas Of troublous world, nor lost in slothfull ease ; Pleas'd and full blest he lives, when he his God can please. His bed of wool yeelds safe and quiet sleeps. While by his side his faithfull spouse hath place : His little Sonne into his bosome creeps. The lively picture of his father's face : Never his humble house or state torment him ; Lesse he could like, if Icsse his God had sent him ; And when he dies, grieen turfs, with grassie tombe, content him. The world's great Light his lowly state hath bless'd. And left his Heav'n to be a shepherd base : Thousand sweet songs he to his pipe addrest : Swift rivers stood, beasts, trees, stones, ranne apace. And serpents flew, to heare his softest strains : He fed his flock where rolling Jordan reignes ; There took our rags, gave us his robes, and bore our pains. Fond man, that looks on Earth for happinesse, And here long seeks what here is never found I For all our good we hold from Heav'n by lease, With many forfeits and conditions bound ; Nor can we pay the fine and rentage due : PUINEAS FLETCHER. 149 Tho' now but writ, and seal'd, and giv n anew, Yet daily we it break, then daily must renew. Why should'st thou here look for perpetual! good. At evVy losse against Heav'ns face repining ? Do but behold where glorious cities stood, With gilded tops and silver turrets shining ; There now the hart, fearlesse of greyhound, feeds. And loving pelican in safety breeds ; There shrieking satyres fill the people's eniptie steads. Where is th' Assyrian lion's golden hide, That all the east once graspt in lordly paw ? Where that great Persian beare, whose swelling pride The lion's self tore out with ravenous jaw? Or he which, 'twixt a lion and a pard, Thro' all the world with nimble pineons far'd. And to his greedy whelps his conquer'd kingdomes shar'd? Hardly the place of such antiquitie. Or note of these great monarchies we finde : Onely a fading verball memorie. And empty name in writ, is left behinde : But when this second life and glory fades. And sinks at length in time's obscurer shades, A second fall succeeds, and double death invades. That monstrous beast, which, nurst in Tiber's fenne. Did all the world with hideous shape affray ; That fiU'd with costly spoil his gaping denne. And trode down all the rest to dust and clay : His batt'ring horns pulFd out by civil hands, And iron teeth, lie scatter'd on the sands ; Backt, bridled by a monk, with sev'n heads yoked stands. And that black vulture, which with deathfuU wing Oreshadows half the Earth, whose dismall sight Frighted the Muses from their native spring. Already stoops, and fiagges with weary flight : Who then shall look for happiness beneath ? Where each new day proclaims chance, change, and death ; And life itseirs as flit as is the aire we breathe. / 150 GILES FLETCHER. Giles Flstchsb, the brother of the Pbet Phlneas, the ion of a poet, and the coasin of the great dramatist— of whose fiimily it was said " the very name's a poet " — has left us but scanty materials out of which to form a biography even so limited at that we require. He was bom probably a short time after his broUier ; the year of his birth is not recorded ; but he has himself Informed us that Fhineas was the elder. In allusion to the Purple Island, he says, " Bat my grten mate hldiB( b«r yoaagvr head." He was, according to Wood, " equally beloved both of the Muses and the OTaces.** Giles, as well as Phineas, was a clergyman ; he was also educated at Cambridge ; and was beneficed at Alderton in Suflblk, where his death took place some yean befiire that of his brother — probably in 1628. And this is nearly all we know of the life of one of the higher order of our poets ; whose name most live with " our land's language." His great, indeed, his only, poem, if we except one or two elegiac compositions, is ** Christ's Victory and Triumph."— It was first published at Cambridge in 1610 ; but appears to have met with unmerited neglect, a second edition not having been called for until upwards of twenty years had elapsed. The Poet, therefore, relinquished the unprofitable companionship of the Muses — ^the warm and fervent praise of a few of his contemporaries being insufficient to satisfy his cravings after fome. He seems to have turned his thoughts into another channel, to have attained the reputation of '* good skill" in scholastic divinity, and to have secured the reward of a fellowship. He was thus enabled to gratify bis love of college life; which. In evil hour, he resigned for the living of Alderton ; where, we are told, '* his clownish parishioners (having nothing but their shoes high about them) valued not their pastor according to his worth, which disposed him to melancholy, and hastened his dissolution." Though yielding early to the influence of sickness and " hope deferred," he appears to have anticipated that after-fame, which is, however, unworthily withheld firom him. When cautioned by bis brother against esteeming " malicious tongues," he looked to the tatuxt for his exceeding great reward; " It is only Poetry," he says, "that can make us be thought living men when we lie among the dead" — "a recompense," he adds, " which neither Philosophy nor Ethics, nor all the arts, can bestow upon us." Of " Christ's Victory and Triumph" we may speak in terms of the highest praise. The Poet has exhibited a fertility of invention and a rich store of Cuiey worthy of the sublime subject. The style is lofty and energetic, the descriptions natural and graphic, and the construction of his verse graceful and harmonious. But, unlu^ipUy, he has introduced among his sacred themes — the birth, temptation, passion, cru- cifixion, resurrection, and ascension of tho Saviour — so many characters fhmi, and allusions to, profane history, as often to Jar upon the sense and to render the Poet justly liable to the charges of bad taste and inconsistency. Giles Fletcher, indeed, had no power of selecting his thoughts, or his reputation might have equalled his genius. The Poem is divided into four parts :— Christ's Victory in Heaven ; Christ's Triumph on Earth ; Christ's Triumph over Death ; Christ's Triumph after Death. The first having reference to the Incarnation ; the second, to the Temptation ; the third, to the Crucifixion ; and the fourth, to the Resurrection. In the course of these, he refers to the Graces, Mount Olympus, the Trojan Boy, the Titans, " wild Pentheus," " staring Orestes," Orpheus, Deucalion, Apollo, Bacchus, Pan, Adonis, Arcady, Mount Ida, and the honey of Hybla— references that bear us away ttom the solemn grandeur of his great theme. The poem, however, amply com- pensates for this defect. The passages we have selected describe the lemptation of our Saviour in the wilderness ; where, having passed two dreary days and nights, making " the ground his bed and his moist pillow grass," he perceives aikr off an aged sire who " nearer came and lowted low" and besought the Son of Heaven to bless the humble cell of the old Palmer. So '< on they wandered ;" first visiting the cave of Despair— within whose gloomy hole the serpent vainly wooed his lord to enter; next Presumption her pavilion spread ; then suddenly a goodly garden grew out of the flrozen solitude—" as If the snow had melted Into flowers ;" and the Saviour is led by tho tempter, through the bower of Vain Delight; the sorceress vainly seeking to corrupt the incorruptible. This brief description is a necessary introduction to the passage we have selected. GILES FLETCHER. Twice had Diana bent her golden bowe, And shot from Heav'n her silver shafts, to rouse The sluggish salvages, that den belowe, And all the day in lazie covert drouse. Since him the silent wildemcsse did house: The Heav'n hia roofe, and arbour harbour was, The ground his bed, and his moiet pillowe grasKc ; But fruit thear none did growe, nor rivers none did passe. At length an aged syre farre off he aawe Come slowely Kioting, every step he guest One of his feetc he from the grave did drawe. l.W GILES FLETCHER. Three legges he had, the woodden was tlie best, And all the waie he went, he ever blest With benedicities, and prayers store. But the bad ground was blessed neV the more, And all his head with snowe of age was waxen hore. A good old hennit he might seeme to be. That for devotion had the world forsaken, And now was travelling some saint to see. Since to his beads he had himselfe betaken, Whear all his former sinncs he might awaken, And them might wash away with dropping brine. And almes, and fasts, and churche*s discipline ; And dead, might rest his bones under the holy shrine. But when he neercT came, he lowted lowe With prone obeysance, and with curtsie kinde, That at his feete his head he seem*d to throwe : What needs him now another saint to iinde ? Affections are the sailes, and faith the wind. That to tliis Sainte a thousand soules convey Each hour : O happy pilgrims, thither strey I What caren they for beasts, or for the wearie way .'' Ere long they came nere to a balefull bowre. Much like the mouth of that infemall cave. That gaping stood all commers to devoure, Dark, dolefull, dreary, like a greedy grave. That still for carrion carkasses dotli crave. The ground no hearbs, but venomous, did beare. Nor ragged trees did leave ; but every whear Dead bones and skulls wear cast, and bodies hanged wear. Upon the roofe the bird of sorrowe sat, Elonging joyfull day with her sad note. And through the shady aire the fluttering bat Did wave her leather sayles, and blindely flote, While with her wings the fatal screech owle smote Th' unblessed house: thear on a craggy stone Celeno hung, and made his direfull mone, And all about the murdered ghosts did shreek and grone. Like cloudie moonshine in some shadowie grove. Such was the light in which Despaire did dwell ; tilLKS FLKTCIIKR. 15S But he hiniselfe with night for darknesse Htrove. His blacke uncombed locks dishevelFd fell About his face ; through which, as brands of Hell, Sunk in his skull, his staring eyes did glowe, That made him deadly looke, their glimpse did showc Like cockatrice's eyes, that sparks of poison throwe. His clothes wear ragged clouts with t homes pin'd fast ; And as he musing lay, to stonie fright A thousand wilde chimeras would him cast : As when a fearefuU dreame in midst of night. Skips to the braine, and phansies to the sight Some winged furie, strait the hasty foot, Eger to flie, cannot plucke up his root : The voyce dies in the tongue, and mouth gapes without boot. The garden like a ladie faire was cut. That lay as if shee slumbered in delight, And to the open skies her eyes did shut ; The azure iields of Heav'n wear 'sembled right In a large round, set with the flowVs of light : The flow'rs-de-luce, and the round sparks of dew, That hung upon their azure leaves, did shew Like twinkling starrs, that sparkle in the evening blew. Upon a hillie banke her head shee cast. On which the bowre of Vaine-delight was built. White and red roses for her face wear plac't, And for her tresses marigolds wear spilt : Them broadly shee displaied, like flaming guilt. Till in the ocean the glad day wear drown*d : Then up againe her yellow locks she wound. And with greene flllets in their prettie calls them bound. What should I here depeint her lillie hand. Her veines of violets, her ermine bre^t, Which there in orient colours living stand: Or how her gowne with silken leaves is drest, Or how her watchman, arm*d with boughie crest A wall of prim hid in his bushes bears, Shaking at every winde their leavie spears, While she supinely sleeps ne to be waked fears ? 1.54' (>1LE8 FLETCIiEK. Over the hedge depends the graping elme, Whose greener head, empurpuled in wine, Seemed to wonder at his bloodie helme, And halfe suspect the bunches of the vine, Least they, perhaps, his wit should undermine, For well he knewe such fruit he never bore : But her weake armes embraced him the more. And her with ruby grapes laugh'd at her paramour. Under the shadowe of these drunken elmes A fountaine rose, where Pangloretta uses (When her some flood of fancie overwhelms. And one of all her favourites she chuses) To bathe herselfe, whom she in lust abuses, And from his wanton body sucks his soule. Which, drown'd in pleasure in that shally bowle, And swimming in delight, doth amorously rowle. The font of silver was, and so his showrs In silver fell, onely the gilded bowles (Like to a fornace, that the min'rall powres) Seemed to have moul't it in their shining holes : And on the water, like to burning coles. On liquid silver leaves of roses lay : But when Panglorie here did list to play. Rose-water then it ranne, and milke it rain'd, they say. The roofe thicke cloudes did psunt, from which three boyes Three gaping mermaides with their eawrs did feede, Whose brests let fall the streame, with sleepie noise, To lions' mouths, from whence it leapt with speede. And in the rosie laver seem*d to bleed ; The naked boyes unto the waters fall, Their stonie nightingales had taught to call, When Zephyr breath'd into their watery interall. And all about, embayed in soft sleepe, A heard of charmed beasts a-ground wear spread, Which the fairc witch in goulden chaines did keepe, And them in willing bondage fettered : Once men they liv'd, but now the men were dead. And tumM to beasts ; so fabled Homer old. That Circe with her potion, charm*d in gold, Us*d manly soules in beastly bodies to immould. GILES FLETCHER. 15.5 Through this faL»e Eden, to his lemau's bowre, (Whome thousand soules devoutly idolize) Our first destroyer led our Saviour ; Thear in the lower roome, in solemne wise, They dauac*d a round, and powr'd their sacrifice To plumpe Lyaeus, and among the rest. The jolly priest, in y vie garlands drest, Chaunted wild orgialls, in honour of the feast. Others within their arbours swilling sat, (For all the roome about was arboured) With laughing Bacchus, that was growne so fat, That stand he could not, but was carried, And every evening freshly watered, To quench his fierie cheeks, and all about Small cocks broke through the wall, and sallied out Flaggons of wine, to set on fire that spueing rout. This their inhumed soules esteem'd their wealths. To crowne the bousing kan from day to night. And sicke to drinke themselves with drinking healths. Some vomiting, all drunken with delight. Hence to a loft, carv*d all in yvorie white. They came, whear whiter ladies naked went. Melted in pleasure and soil languishment, And sunke in beds of roses, amorous glaunces sent. High over all, Panglorie's blazing throne. In her bright turret, all of christall wrought. Like Phosbus* lampe, in midst of Heaven, shone : Whose starry top, with pride infemall fraught, Selfe-arching columns to uphold wear taught : In which her image still reflected was By the smooth crystall, that, most like her glasse. In beauty and in frailtie did all others passe. A silver wand the sorceresse did sway. And, for a crowne of gold, her haire she wore ; Onely a garland of rose-buds did play About her locks, and in her hand she bore A hollowe globe of glasse, that long before She full of emptinesse had bladdered. And all the world therein depictured : Whose colours, like the rainebowe, ever vanished. \56 UILES FLETCHER. Such wat'ry orbicles young boyes doe blowe !)ut from their sopy shells, and much admure rhe swimming world, which tenderly they rowe iVith easie breath till it be waved higher : 3ut if they chaunce but roughly once aspire, The painted bubble instantly doth fall. Here when she came, she 'gan for musique call, \nd sung this wooing song, to welcome him withall : " Love is the blossome where thear blowes Every thing that lives or groWes : Love doth make the Heav'ns to move, And the Sun doth burne in love : Love the strong and weake doth yoke. And makes the y vie climbe the oke ; Under whose shadowes lions wilde, Soften*d by love, growe tame and mild : Love no med'cine can appease. He burnes the fishes in the seas ; Not all the skill his wounds can stench, Not all the sea his fire can quench : Love did make the bloody spear Once a levie coat to wear. While in his leaves thear shrouded lay Sweete birds, for love that sing and play : And of all love*s joyfull dame, I the bud and blossome am. Onely bend thy knee to me. Thy wooeing shall thy winning be. " See, see the flowers that belowe. Now as fresh as morning blowe. And of all, the virgin rose, That as bright Aurora showes : How they all unleaved die, Losing their virginitie ; Like unto a summer-shade. But now borne, and now they fade. Every thing doth passe away, Thear is danger in delay : Come, come, gather then the rose, Gather it, or it you lose. All the sande of Tagus* shore Into my bosome casts his ore : GILES FLETCHER. 157 All the valleys' swimming come To my house is yerely borne: Every grape of every vine Is gladly bniisM to make me wine ; While ten thousand kings, as proud, To carry up my traine have bow*d, And a world of ladies send me In my chambers to attend me. All the starres in Heav*n that shine, And ten thousand more, are mine : Onely bend thy knee to mee, Thy wooing shall thy winning bee." Thus sought the dire enchauntress in his minde Her guileful bayt to have embosomed : But he her charmes dispersed into winde. And her of insolence admonished, And all her optique glasses shattered. So with her syre to Hell shee tooke her flight, (The starting ay re flew from the damned spright) Whear deeply both aggriev'd, plunged themselves in night. But to their Lord, now musing in his thought, A heavenly volie of light angels flew. And from his Father him a banquet brought, Through the fine element ; for well they knew, After his Lenten fast, he hungrie grew : And as he fed, the holy quires combine To sing a hymne of the celestiall Trine ; All thought to passe, and each was past all thought divine. The birds' sweet notes, to sonnet out their joyes, Attemper'd to the layes angelicall ; And to the birds the winds attune their noyse ; And to the winds the waters hoarcely call, And eccho back againe revoyced all ; That the whole valley rung with victorie. But now our Lord to rest doth homewards flie : See how the night comes stealing from the mountains high. only because its proM flattery must have " pleased the kinK." It is to be regretted that the one, in the fullness of his heart, or during; momenta of unthinking hilarity, should have said much that was not exactly wise; and that the other should have been so unable to appreciate his guent's real character as to have noted down his petty jealousiies and abKurditios. The personal acquaintance of the two poets lasted only a few weeks— not long enough perhaps to exliibit, at least to Drummond, the virtues of " Rare Ben Jonson." The principal poemn of Drummond are the " Flowers of Sion," short pieces upon sacred subjects, and a variety of songK and sonnets. Among them are several of great beauty ; the versiiication is easy and elegant— to an astonishing degree, indeed, when we bear in mind the age in which he wrote, and that he preceded Waller and others whom we arc taught to consider as the fathers of " smoothnefts" in our English tongue. Although he had studied deeply, and derived much advantage tmm his knowledge of the poets of Italy. Prance and Spain, his learning is never unpleasantly intruded upon the reader. His thoughts are naturally and gracefully expressed : —both his ideas and his language are remarkably free from the afi^tations so conspicuous in his contemporaries; he rarely indulges in the crude conceits by which their writings are deformed; and appears to have felt and .acknowledged (at times \»ith intenseness) the influence of nature. DRUMMOND. Triumphing nhariote, Btatues, crowns of bayes, Skie-threatning arches, the rewards of worth. Books heavenly- wise in sweet harmonious layes. Which men divine unto the world set forth : States which ambitious minds, in bloud do raise, From frozen Tanais unto sun-burnt Gonge, Gigantall frames held wonders rarely strange. Like spiders webs are made the sport of dales, Nothing is constant but in constant change^ What's done still b undone, and when undone Into some other fashion doth it nmge ; Thus goes tlie floting world beneath the moone; Wherefore my mind above time, motion, place, Rise up, and steps unknown to nature trace. 160 DRUMMOND. SONNETS. I KNOW that all beneath the Moon decaies. And what by mortalls in this world is brought, In Time's great periods shall returne to noughte ; That fairest states have fatal nights and daies. I know that all the Muses heavenly layes, With toyle of spright, which are so dearely bought. As idle sounds, of few, or none are sought. That there is nothing lighter than vaine praise. I know fraile beauty like the purple floure, To which one morne oft birth and death affords. That love a jarring is of minds accords, Where sense and will bring under Reason's power : Know what I list, all this cannot me move. But that, (alas !) I both must write, and love. Sleep, silence, child, sweet father of soft rest. Prince whose approach peace to all mortals brings. Indifferent host to shepheards and to kings. Sole comforter of minds which are oppress'd ; Loe, by thy charming rod, all breathing things Lie slumbering, with forgetfulnesse possest. And yet oVe me to spread thy drowsie wings Thou spar st, (alas I) who cannot be thy guest. Since I am thine, O come, but with that face To inward light which thou art wont to show. With faigned solace ease a triie-felt woe ; Or if, deafe god, thou do deny that grace. Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath, I long to kisse the image of my death. Trust not, sweet soule, those curled waves of gold With gentle tides that on your temples flow. Nor temples spred with flsdces of virgin snow. Nor snow of cheeks with Tyrian graine enrol'd. Trust not those shining lights which wrought my woe, When first I did their azure rales behold. Nor voice, whose sounds more strange effects do show, Than of the Thracian harper have been told : DRUMMOND. 161 Look to this dying lilly, fading rose, Dark hyacinthe, of late whose blushing beames Made ail the neighbouring herbs and grasse rejoyce, And thinke how little is *twixt life's extreames ; The cruell tyrant that did kill those flow'rs, Shall once, aye me, not spare that spring of yours. My lute, be as thou wert when thou did grow With thy green mother in some shady grove. When immelodious winds but made thee move, And birds their ramage did on thee bestow. Since that deare voice which did thy sounds approve, Which wont in such harmonious strainas to flow. Is reft from earth to tune those spheares above, What art thou but a harbinger of woe ? Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more, But orphans waitings to the fainting eare, Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a teare, For which be silent as in woods before : Or if that any hand to touch thee daigne, Like widow'd turtle still her losse oomplaine. A PASSING glance, a light*ning 'long the skies. Which ush'ring thunder, dies straight to our sight, A sparke that doth from jarring mixtures rise. Thus drown'd is in th! huge depths of day and night Is this small trifle, life, held in such price. Of blinded wights, who neVe judge aught aright ? Of Parthian shaft so swift is not the flight. As life, that wastes itselfe, and living dies. Ah ! what is humane greatness, valour, wit ! What fading beauty, riches, honour, praise ? To what doth serve in golden thrones to sit. Thrall earth's vaste round, triumphall arches raise ? That's all a dreame, leame in this prince's fall, In whom, save death, nought mortall was at all. 162 DRUMMOKl). Thrice happy he who by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world, doth live his owiiy Though solitary, who is not alone. But doth converse with that eternall love : O how more sweet is birds harmonious moane, Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove, Than those smooth whisperings neer a prince's throne, Which good make doubtfull, do the evill approve I O how more sweet is zephyre's wholesome breath. And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flow'rs unfold, Than that applause vaine honour doth bequeath ! How sweet are streames to poyson dranke in gold I The world is full of horrours, troubles, slights ; Woods harmlesse shades have only true delights. Sweet bird, that sing*st away the earely houres, Of winters past, or comming, void of care, Well pleased with delights which present are. Fair seasons, budding spraies, sweet-smelling flow*rs : To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leavy bow'rs. Thou thy Creator's goodnesse dost declare. And what deare gifts on thee he did not spare, A staine to humane sense in sin that lowers. What soule can be so sick, which by thy songs (Attir'd in sweetnesse) sweetly is not dnven Quite to forget earth's turmoiles, spights and wrongs. And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven ? Sweet, artlesse songster, thou my mind doest raise To ayres of spheares, yes, and to angels layes. Sweet Spring, thou com'st with all thy goodly traine. Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs, The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plaine, The clouds for joy in pearls weepe down their show'rs. Sweet Spring, thou com'st — but, ah I my pleasant hours. And happy days, with thee come not againe ; The sad memorials only of my paine Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to sours. DRUMMOND. 163 Thou art the same which still thou wert before, Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair ; But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air Is gone ; nor gold, nor gems can her restore. Neglected virtue, seasons go and come, When thine forgot lie closed in a tomb. A GOOD that never satisfies the mind, A beauty fading like the Aprill flow*rs, A sweet with flouds of gall, that runs combin'd, A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours, A honour that more fickle is than wind, A glory at opinion's frown that low*rs, A treasury which bankrupt time devoures, A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind ; A vaine delight our e(}ualls to command, A stile of greatnesse, in effect a dreame, A swelling thought of holding sea and land, A servile lot, deck't with a pompous name ; Are the strange ends we toyle for here below. Till wisest death make us our errours know. Look how the flowV, which ling'ringly doth fade. The morning's darling late, the summer's queen, Spoyl'd of that juyce which kept it fresh and green, As high as it did raise, bows low the head : Right so the pleasures of my life being dead, Or in their contraries but only seen, With swifter speed declines than erst it spred. And, (blasted,) scarce now shows what it hath been. Therefore, as doth the pilgrim, whom the night Hastes darkly to imprison on his way, Thinke on thy home, (my soule,) and thinke aright Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day : Thy sun posts westward, passed is f£y monie, And twice it is not given thee to be borne. 164 GEORGE WITHER. Gborob WiTHBm was born in 1588, at Bentworih, Hampshire. In 1604, he was lent to Magdalen College, Oxford; but soon afterwards having, it would i^pear, become intimate with the Muses, his fkther, a plain country gentleman, appvehemiTe of their proving dangerous acquaintances, recalled his son with the intention of teaching him " to hold the plough." The boy, however, rebelled against the authority of the parent, made his way to London, and entered at Lincoln's Inn. In 1618, having previously obtained some celebrity, he published a series of Satires, " Abuses itript and whipt" — and though the poems contain no personal allusions— nor a Bingk immoral thought or indecent expression,— the satire being general — he was com- mitted to the Marshalsea for the "offence." Ihiring his long incarceration, he composed the most beautiAil of his productions — the ** Shepheards Hunting." On his release, his unsettled condition caused him to lead a most perturbed life. But though '* in prisons oft," he continued to pursue the Muse he had wooed in hcj- hood, acknowledging her influence in every shape and character to irtiieh ih]rme could be applied — worshipping her through evil report and good report — sometfanea as an unworthy votary, but far more often under the influence of true inspiration; always maintaining a bold and manly bearing and an intrepid and independ«Bt poott, singing his song, " 111 make ny owse feathers rears mc Whither othen eaasot beare me." If he complained, he did it as a man— if he protested against the bookaeUers as " cruel bee-masters, who bum the poor Athenian bees for their honey," he showed that his words were not mere sounds, by printing the longest of all his writings- Britain's Remembrancer— with his own hands. When the rupture took place between Charles the First and the Commons, Wither sold his paternal estate, and raised a troop of horse for the Parliament. He was taken prisoner and in danger of being hanged ; but Denham interceded Ibr his life, on the ground that, while he lived, the author of " Cooper's Hill" could not be accounted the worst Poet in England. Wither, however, was subsequently Ctomr well's M^Jor-General for Surrey, and shared in the harvest of sequestration; which he was compelled to relinquish at the Restoration. Evil fortune then again pursued him ; his eager and angry protests were deemed libellous, and George Wither was once more doomed to woo his Muse within stone walls. He was first an inmate of Newgate, and afterwards of the Tower. It is uncertain whether he died in prison ; but it ia known that he perished in indigence and obscurity, somewhere about the jrear 1667 : — a sad example of genius unaccompanied by prudence. It is to the earlier poems of Wither that we are to look tar proofii of his power. The playftil fancy, pure taste, and rich yet simple thoughu, which so abound in them, were lost when party zeal changed the character of the man. Instead of being admixed by those who could love and estimate Nature, he was *' cried up by the Puritanical party for his profUse pouring forth of English rhyme, and more, afterwards, by the vulgar sort of people, for his prophetical poetry." His style degenerated; the natural, and artless tone of his Muse grew boisterous ; her garb became unseemly — she laid aside the light and graceful drapery so beautiftilly in keeping with the woods and fields, and put on the sullied and coarse attire of a town termagant. It is obvious, however, even from the brief specimens we have given, that the spirit of true poetry was active within him. His works abound in parts which amply redeem the barrenness of the plain that surrounds them. Such are evidently the outpourings of his soul — the sudden and unmatured promptings of a fine, energetic, and strongly toned mind. They are, to use his own words, " such as flowed forth without study ; " he could not, or would not, *' spend time to pot his meanings into other words." Our principal extract is firom the Shepherds Hunting— a passage which, although well known, it is impossible to omit ftom any collection of the beauties of English Poetry. The Poem is a dialogue between Roget and Willy— which is held in the Marshalsea Prison. The caged Poet, after a lengthened description of the Pleaaurea that live with Freedom, describes the only consolation left to him— the companionship of the Muse. Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes, Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts in awe ; And free access, unto that sweet lip, lies. From whence I long the rosie breath to draw. Methinks no wrong it were, if I should steal From those two melting rubies, one poor kiss ; None sees the theft that would the thief reveal. Nor rob I her of ought which she can miss : Nay, should I twenty kisses take away. There would be little sign I had done so ; Why then should I this robbery delay ? Oh ! she may wake, and therewith angry grow ! Well, if she do, 1*11 back restore that one, And twenty hundred thousand more for loan. ^ 166 WITHER. FROM THE 8HEPHEARDS HUNTING. As the sunne doth oft exhale Vapours from each rotten vale ; Poesie so sometimes draines, Grosse conceits from muddy braines ; Mists of envie, fogs of spight, Twixt mens judgements and her light ; But so much her power may doe, That she can dissolve them too. If thy verse do bravely tower, As she miakes wing, she gets power : Yet the higher she doth sore, She*s affronted still the more : Till she to the highest hath past, Then she restes with Fame at last, Let nought therefore thee affright. But make forward in thy flight : For if I could match thy rime, To the very starres I*de clime. There begin againe, and flye, Till I reach'd fieternity. But (alas) my Muse is slow : For thy page she flagges too low : Yes, the more's her haplesse fate. Her short wings were dipt of late. And poore I, her fortune ruing. Am my selfe put up a muing. But if I my cage can rid, I*le flye where I never did. And though for her sake I*me crost. Though my best hopes I have lost. And knew she would make my trouble Ten times more then ten times double : I would love and keepe her too, Spight of all the world could doe. For though banisht from my flockes. And confined within these rockes. Here I waste away the light. And consume the sullen night. She doth for my comfort stay. And keepes many cares away. Though I misse the flowry fields, With those sweets the spring-tyde yeelds, WITHEH. 167 Though I may not see those groves, Where the shepheards chaunt their loves, And the lapses more excell, Then the sweet voyc'd Philomel, Though of all those pleasures past, Nothing now reniaines at last, But Remembrance (poore reliefe) That more makes, then mends my griefe : She's my mind's companion still, Maugre Envies evil will. She doth tell me where to borrow Comfort in the midst of sorrow ; Makes the desolatest place To her presence be a grace ; And the blackest discontents To be pleasing ornaments. In my former dayes of blisse. Her divine skill taught me this. That from every thing I saw, I could some invention draw : And raise pleasure to her height, Through the meanest objects sight ; By the murmure of a spring. Or the least boughs rusteling ; By a dazie whose leaves spred, Shut when Tytan goes to bed, Or a shady bush or tree. She could more infuse in me, Then all natures beauties can, In some other wiser man. By her helpe I also now. Make this churlish place allow Somthings that may sweeten gladnes In the very gall of sadnes ; The dull loaneness, the blacke shade. That those hanging vaults have made, The strange musicke of the waves, Beating on these hollow caves, This blacke den which rocks embosse, Over-growne with eldest mosse. The rude portals that give light. More to terrour then delight. This my chamber of neglect, WalM about with disrespect. 168 WITHER. From all these, and this dull ayre, A fit object for despaire ; She hath taught me, by her might, To draw comfort and delight Therefore thou best earthly blisse, I will cherish thee for this. Poesie, thou sweetest content That ere Heaven to mortals lent : Though they as a trifle leave thee, Whose dull thoughts can not conceive thee. Though thou be to them a scorne, That to nought but earth are borne : Let my life no longer bee. Then I am in love with thee. Though our wise ones call it madnes, Let me never taste of sadnes, If I love not thy mad'st fits Above all their greatest wits. And though some too seeming holy. Doe account thy raptures folly : Thou dost teach me to contenme What makes knaves and fooles of them. Now that my body dead-alive, Bereav'd of comfort lyes in thrall, Doe thou, my soul, begin to thrive. And unto honie tume this gall : So shall we both through outward wo The way to inward comfort know. As to the flesh we foode do give. To keepe in us this mortall breath : So soules on meditation live. And shunne thereby immortall death : Nor art thou ever neerer rest. Then when thou find'st me most opprest. First thinke, my soule, if I have foes That take a pleasure in my care, And to procure these outward woes Have thus entrapt me unaware : Thou should'st by much more carefull bee, Since greater foes lay waite for thee. WfTHEIl. 169 Then when mew*d up in grates of Steele, Minding those joyes mine eyes doe missc, Thou find*8t no torment thou do'st feele, So grievous as privation is : Muse how the damn'd in flames that glow, Pine in the losse of blisse they know. Thou seest there's given so great a might To some that are but clay as I, Their very anger can affright ; Which if in any thou espie Thus thinke, if mortals frownes strike fearc, How dreadfull will God's wrath appcare ! By my late hopes that now are crost, Consider those that firmer bee, And make the freedome I have lost A meanes that may remember thee : Had Christ not thy Redeemer bin, What horrid thrall thou had'st beene in. These iron chaines, the bolt's of Steele, Which other poore offenders grinde, The wants and cares which they doe feele. May bring some greater thing to minde : For by their griefe thou shalt doe well. To thinke upon the paines of hell. Or when through me thou seest a man Condemned unto a mortall death. How sad he lookes, how pale, how wan, Drawing with feare his panting breath ; Thinke if in that such griefe thou see, How sad will, Goe yee cursed bee ! Againe, when he that fear'd to dye (Past hope) doth set his pardon brought, Reade but the joy that's in his eye, And then convay it to thy thought : There thinke betwixt thy heart and thee. How sweet will. Come ye blessed bee! Thus if thou doe, though closed here, My bondage I shall deeme the lesse. A 170 WITHER. I neither shall have cause to fear, Nor yet bewaile my sad distresse : For whether live, or pine, or dye, We shall have blisse eternally. THE SHEFHEARD'8 RESOLUTION. Shall I, wasting in despaire, Dye, because a woman 's faire ? Or make pale my cheeks with care *Cause another's rosie are ? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowVy meads in May ; If she be not so to me, What care I how faire she be ? Shall my foolish heart be pin'd 'Cause I see a woman kind ? Or a well-disposed nature Joined with a lovely feature ? Be she meeker, kinder, than The Turtle-Dove or Pelican : If she be not so to me. What care I how kinde she be ? Shall a woman's virtue move Me to perish for her love ? Or her well-deservings knowne, Make me quite forget mine owne ? Be she with that goodnesse blest. Which may merit name of Best ; If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be ? 'Cause her fortune seivis too high. Shall I play the foole and dye ? Those that beare a noble minde, Where they want of riches finde, Thinke what with them they would doe, That without them dare to wooe ; And unlesse that minde I see. What care I how great she be ? WITHER. 171 Great, or good, or kinde or faire, will ne'er the more despaire ; If she love me, this beleeve ; will dye ere she shall grieve. If she slight me when I wooe, can scome and let her goe : If she be not fit for me, What care I for wliom she be ? PROM PAIR VIRTUE. Hail, thou fairest of all creatures Upon whom the sun doth shine : Model of all rarest features, And perfections most divine. Thrice all-hail : and blessed be Those that love and honour thee. This, thy picture, therefore shew I Naked unto every eye, Yet no fear of rival know I, Neither touch of jealousie ; For, the more make love to thee, I the more shall pleased be. I am no Italian lover. That will mewe thee in a jayle ; But, thy beautie I discover, English-like, without a vail ; If thou may St be won away. Win and wear thee he that may. Yet, in this thou mayst believe me ; (So indifferent tho' I seem) Death with tortures would not grieve me, More than loss of thy esteem ; For, if virtue me forsake, All, a scorn of me will make. Then, as I on thee relying Doe no changing feare in thee : So, by my defects supplying, From all changing, keep thou me. That, unmatched we may prove, — Thou, for beautie ; I, for love. 172 WITHER. THE STEDFA8T 8HEPHEARD. Hence away, thou Syren, leave me, Pish I unclaspe these wanton armes ; Sugred words can ne*er deceive me, (Though thou prove a thousand charmes). Fie, fie, forbeare ; No common snare Can ever my affection chaine : Thy painted baits. And poore deceits, Are all bestowed on me in vaine. I*m no slave to such as you be ; Neither shall that snowy brest, Rowling eye, and lip of ruby Ever robb me of my rest : Goe, goe, display Thy beautie*s ray To some more-soone enamour'd swaine : Those common wiles Of sighs and smiles Are all bestowed on me in vaine. I have elsewhere vowed a dutie ; Turne away thy tempting eye: Shew not me a painted beautie ; These impostures I defie : My spirit lothes Where gaudy clothes And fained othes may love obtaine : I love her so, Whose looke sweares No ; That all your labours will be vaine. Can he prize the tainted posies, Which on every brest are wome ; That may plucke the virgin roses From their never-touched thome ? I can goe re^t On her sweet brest, That is the pride of Cynthia's traine : Then stay thy tongue ; Thy mermaid song Is all b^towed on me in vaine. WITHER. 173 He's a foole, that basely dallies, Where each peasant mates with him : Shall I haunt the thronged vallies, Whilst ther's noble hils to climbe ? No, no, though clownes Are scar'd with frownes, I know the best can but disdaine : And those He prove : So will thy love Be all bestowed on me in vaine. I doe scorne to vow a dutie. Where each lustfuU lad may wooe : Give me her, whose sun-like beautie Buzzards dare not soare unto : Shee, shee it is Affords that blisse For which I would refuse no paine : But such as you. Fond fooles, adieu ; You seeke to captive me in vaine. Leave me then, you Syrens, leave me ; Seeke no more to worke my harmes : Craftie wiles cannot deceive me. Who am proofe against your charmes : You labour may To lead astray The heart, that constant shall remaine : And I the while Will sit and smile To see you spend your time in vaine. 174 THOMAS CAREW. Tromai Caebw, the descendant of an ancient fiunily of Deronahlra, was bora, it is ounjectiired, in Gloucestershire, but the year of his birth has not btax eamcOj ascertained. Mr. Ellis gives it as 1577, but Lord Clarendon, a contemporary, statea him to have lived " fifty years ;" he must therefore have been bom in 1588. He waa educated at Corpus Christi, Oxford, but never matriculated. Having, according to Wood, " improved his parts by travelling, and conversation with ingenious men in the metropolis," his talents attracted the notice of Charles the first, by whom hB was appointed gentleman of the Privy Chamber, and sewer in ordinary. Hia after years seem to have been passed in ease and affluence ; but unhappily with " less severity or exactness then they ought to have been.** Clarendon, who makes this remark, adds, that "he died with the greatest remorse for that license, and with the greatest manifestation of Christianity that his best friends oould desire." There is little doubt that his death took place in I6S9;— a short time previous to the bursting of the storm that had been long gathering. Carew was greatly esteemed by all hia contemporaries: his accomplishments were of the rarest order, and his mamiera must have been in the highest degree conciliating. Jonson, Davenant, Donne, and Suckling, were among his most " loving friends." Davenant in celebrating hia wit, and the chief sources of its inspiration, has these lines : — " Thy wit't chief vlrta* is become iU vice ; For every beaaty thoa hut raU'd to high. That DO«r coarse faces carry sach a price As mast aado a lover that would bay." Pope, who classes Carew among "the mob of gentlemen who wrote with eaae,*' haa not done Justice to his merits. " For the sharpness of his fancy and the elegancy of the language in which that fancy was spread," says Lord Clarendon, **his poema are at least equal if not superior to any of his time." They were first published in 8vo, and have been several times reprinted. " The songs," as Wood expresaea it, " were wedded to the charming notes of Mr. Henry Lawes," gentleman of the King's Chapel, and the most eminent musical composer of his age. Carew is deservedly placed high in the list of writers who first bestowed grace and polish on Ijrrical poetry, ht these qualities he surpassed WaUer, whose " smoothness" has been so much lauded by critics who have omitted to notice it in his predecessors. His poems consist of minor pieces; all bearing upon those topics which seem in his age to have been thought alone worthy of verse— Love that existed without sentiment or esteem, occasional elegies, with now and then a laudatory line or two upon royalty. Nature was seldom resorted to for more ennobling themes ; the poets of that day seem to have satisfied themselves with circulating trom hand to hand a few pointed and ^wing stansas to commemorate either the kindness or the disdain of some mistress, whose love or hatred, after all, was little worth, and valued accordingly. Such are the chief themes of Carew — with whom, as with most others, the passion was like " snow that falls upon a river," gone almost as soon as seen ; but, unlike the snow, leaving a pre- judicial taint to work mischief after it has vanished. The masque, Coelum Britan- nicum, which he wrote by express command of Charles the Pint, and in which his Majesty and several lords of his household sustained parts, when it was enacted at WhitehaU on the 18th February, 1683, is of a higher character than any of his verses. It is a mixture of prose and poetry, in blank verse and rhjrme, in which Mereury, Momus, Poverty, Pleasure, and a vast concourse of attendants, appear— and after having " spoken their speeches," are succeeded by Druids. Riven, and Kingdoms, summoned by the Genius of Britain, to do homage to Royalty. Religion, Truth and Wisdom, and a host of virtues follow, — and then pass, " leaving nothing but a serene •ky." We have given among our Bi>ecimen8 a passage tcom this masque. Although Carew excels his contemporaries in the grace and harmony of his verse, and is less disfigured than most of them, by cold and frivolous conceits, it is rardy that he excites the feelings, interests the imagination, or touches the heart. Sprightly, polished and perspicuous, he certainly is — a gallant gentleman alwajrs— and "the chiefest of his time for delicacy of wit and poetic fsncy"— but he neglected the means he undoubtedly possessed, of ascending the heights of Parnassus, and was content to trifle with the shining pebbles he discovered at iU base. • A^ik/w \./« i^*^\JLJLJK;XJl, You, that behold how yond sad Lady blends Those ashes with her tears, lest, as she spends Her tributary sighs, the frequent gust Might scatter up and down the noble dust ; Know, when that heap of atonies was with blood Kneaded to solid flesh, and firmly stood On stately pillars, the rare form might move The froward Ino*s, or chaste Cynthia's love. In motion, active grace ; in rest, a calm ; Attractive sweetness brought both wound and balm To every heart ; he wa.s composed of all The wishes of ripe virgins, when they call For Hymen's rites, and in their fancies wed A shape of studied beauties to their bed. 176 CAREW. Within this curious palace dwelt a Soul Gave lustre to eiich part, and to the whole : Thb drest his face in courteous smiles ; and so From comely gestures sweeter manners flow. This courage joyn*d to strength ; so the hand, beut. Was Valor s ; open'd, Bounty's instrument ; Which did the scale and sword of Justice hold, Knew how to brandish steel and scatter gold. This taught him not t* engage his modest tongue In suits of private gain, though publick wrong ; Nor misemploy (as is the great man*s use) His credit witii his Master, to traduce. Deprave, maligne, and mine Innocence, In proud revenge of some mis-judg*d offence : But all his actions had the noble end T' advance desert, or grace some worthy friend. He chose not in the active stream to swim, Nor hunted Honour, which yet hunted him ; But like a quiet eddy that hath found Some hollow creek, there turns his waters round. And in continual circles dances, free From the impetuous torrent ; so did he Give others leave to turn the wheel of state, (Whose steerless motion spins the subjects fate) Whilst he, retired from the tumultuous noise Of court, and sutors press, apart enjoys Freedom, and mirth, himself, his time and friends. And with sweet relish tastes each hour he spends. I could remember how his noble heart First kindled at your beauties ; with what art He chas'd his game through all opposing fears. When I his sighs to you, and back your tears Conveyed to him ; how loyal then, and how Constant he prov'd since to his marriage vow. So as his wand'ring eyes never drew in One lustful thought to tempt his soul to sin ; But that I fear such mention rather may Kindle new grief, than blow the old away. ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ 4( Seek him no more in dust, but call again Your scattered beauties home ; and so the pen, Which now I take from this sad Eleg}s Shall sing the trophies of your conq*ring eye. CAREW. 177 DISDAIN RETUnNP.D. He that loves a rosie cheek, Or a coral Up admires, Or from star-like eye^ doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires ; As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away. But a smooth and stedfast mind, Gentle thoughts and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combined, Kindle never-dying fires. Where these are not, I despise, Lovely cheeks, or lips or eyes. No tears, Celia, now shall win My resolv'd heart to return ; I have search'd thy soul within, And find nought but pride and scorn : I have leam'd thy arts, and now Can disdain as much as thou. Some Pow'r, in my revenge, convey That love to her I cast away. INORATKFUL BEAUTY THREATENED. Know, Celia, since thou art so proud, 'Twas I that gave thee thy renown : Thou hadst, in the forgotten crowd Of common beauties, liv'd unknown, Had not ray verse exhaled thy name, And with it impt the wings of Fame. That killing power is none of thine, I gave it to thy voice and eyes : Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine ; Thou art my star, shin'st in my skies ; Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere Lightning on him that fixt thee there. A A 178 CAREW. Tempt me with such affrights no more. Lest what I made I uncreate : Let fools thy mystic forms adore, 111 know thee in thy mortal state. Wise poets, that wrap troth in tales. Knew her themselves through all her veils. SONG. Ask me no more where Jove bestows When June is past, the fading rose ; For in your beauties orient deep These flow'rs, as in their causes, sleep. Ask me no more, whither doe stray The golden atomes of the day ; For, in pure love, heaven did prepare Those powders to inrich your hair. Ask me no more, whither doth haste The nightingale, when May is past ; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note. Ask me no more, where those stars light. That downwards fall in dead of night ; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere. Ask me no more, if east or west, The phoenix builds her spicy nest ; For unto you at last she flies. And in your fragrant bosom dies. THE PRIMROSE. Ask me why I send you here This firstling of the infant year ; Ask me why I send to you This primrose all be-pearl'd with dew ; CA^EW. 179 I straight will whisper in your ears,. The sweets of love are washM with tears : Ask me why this flowV doth show So yellow, green, and sickly too ; Ask me why the stalk is weak, And bending, yet it doth not break ; 1 must tell you, tliese discover What doubts and fears are in a lover. i-lkast:uk. IliOM (.(KLUM BRITANMICUM. Bewitching Syren I gilded rottenness ! Thou hast with cunning artifice displayed Th* enamel'd out-side, and the honied verge Of the fair cup where deadly poyson lurks. Within, a thousand Sorrows dance the round ; And, like a shell, Pain circles thee without. Grief is the shadow waiting on thy steps. Which, as thy joys 'gin towards their West decline. Doth to a gyant's spreading form extend Thy dwarfish stature. Thou thyself art Pain, Greedy intense Desire ; and the keen edge Of thy fierce appetite ofl strangles thee. And cuts thy slender thread ; but still the terror And apprehension of thy hasty end Mingles with gall thy most refined sweets ; Yet thy Circean charms transform the world. Captains that have resisted war and death. Nations that over Fortune have triumphM, Are by thy magick made effeminate : Empires, that knew no limits but the poles, Have in thy wanton lap melted away : Thou wert the author of the first excess That drew this reformation on the Gods. Canst thou then dream, those Powers, that from Heaven Banished th' effect, will there enthrone the cause ? To thy voluptuous denne fly, Witch, from hence ; There dwell, for ever drown'd in brutish sense. ISO WILLIAM BKOWNE. William Brownk was bom at Tavistock.* Devon, in the year 1590. From the Cf ranimar School of that town he entered at Exeter College, Oxford, but,- whhoat taking a de(tree, removed to the Inner Temple, where he appears to have p ref erred the Muse's lore to the sober study of the Law. Tlie poem to which he is chiefly indebted for his reputation must have been written at a very early age — whik the impressions left on his mind by the natural beauties of his native county were yet freKh and vivid. The first part of Britannia's Pastorals, published in 1613, was, according to the fatthion of the time, heralded by many learned fiends, among whom were Selden and Dra> ton ; and on the appearance of part the second, three yean afterwards, similar compliuients were conferred upon him by Wither and Ben Jouson. Bi'tween the i^isues of these two parts, he printed the Shepherd's Pipe, iu seven I-lclogucs, and wrote the '* Inner Temple Masque." lie was subsequently appointed tutor to the young Earl of Caernarvon, who was slain at the battle of Newbuiy, and received the patronage and resided in the family of the Earl of Pembroke, where, according to Wood, " he got wealth and purchased an esute." Of his life little else is known save that he returned to Devonshire, and died at Ottery St. Mary, in 1645,— and of his personal appearance it is only recorded that " as he had a little body so a great mind." His great poem, ** Britannia's Pastorals," is divided into ten " Songs'*— in whidi a variety of person the Poet and the Man. His Shepherd's Pipe is decidedly inferior; but from the Inner Temple Masque, which suggested to Milton the idea of "Comus"— we have given the " Syren'a Song '—one of the most perfect examples of his fancy. Although he wore the bays proudly during his life-time, his works soon after his death became extremely scarce— unhappily because they were neglected or forgotten — so scarce indeed that in an advertisement to an edition of them it is stated '* if the Rev. Mr. Thomas Warton had not lent his own copy to be transcribed, the public might have l>een deprived of so valuable a treasure." We record, with gratitude, the name of its preserver. • Mr. rol*ridorn. Bal Princf . la his Worthies of Drvoa, »%*\ia% ihut honour lo 1a«ik(ock , aud CUnvillr, sprakrr of Ihr HouM of CustMOiia (Chsrica !.», MitJir*»r« lo Biownr a kunnrl a» to lii> ItUi'H i(iMn»ii>«n nf Ta\i»lui-k. Now as an angler nu'lanclioly standinjr, Upon a greene ])ancke ycdding rooini* tor landing, A wrigling y(»alow wornie thrust on his hooko, Now in th(; midst he throwes, then in a nooke : Here pulls his line, then; throws it in againe, Mending his croke and baite, but all in vaino, He long stands viewing of* the curled streanie ; At liust a hungry pike, or well-growne breaine, Snatch at the worme, and hasting fast away He, knowing it a fish of* stubborne sway. Puis up his rod, but soft; (as having skill) Wherewith th(^ hooke fast holds the fishe's gill. ;lc 182 BHOWNE. My free-borne Muse will not, like Danae, be Wonne with base drosse to clip with slavery ; Nor lend her ehoiser balme to worthless men, Whose names would die but for some hired pen ; No : if I praise, vertue shall draw me to it, And not a base procurement make me doe it. What now I sing is but to passe away A tedious houre, as some musitians play ; Or make another my owne griefes bemone ; Or to be least alone when most alone. In this can I, as oflt as I will choose, Hug sweet content by my retyred Muse, And in a study finde as much to please As others in the greatest pallaces. Each man that lives (according to his powre) On what he loves bestowes an idle howre; Instead of hounds that make the wooded hils Talke in a hundred voyces to the rils, I like the pleasing cadence of a line Strucke by the concert of the sacred Nine. In lieu of hawkes, the raptures of my soule Transcend their pitch and baser earth's controule. For running horses, contemplation flyes With quickest speed to wiune the greatest prize. For courtly dancing I can take more pleasure To heare a verse keepe time and equail measure. For winning riches, seeke the best directions How I may well subdue mine owne affections. For raysing stately pyles for heyres to come, Here in this poem I erect my tombe. And time may be so kinde, in these weake lines To keepe my name enrolled, past his, that shines In gilded marble, or in brazen leaves : Since verse preserves when stone and brasse deceives. Or if (as worthlesse) time not lets it live To those full dayes which others' Muses give, Yet I am sure I shall be heard and sung Of most severest eld and kinder young Beyond my dayes, and maugre.Envye's strife Adde to my name some houres beyond my life. Such of the Muses are the able powres. And, since with them I spent my vacant houres, I find nor hawke, nor hound, nor other thing, Turnyes nor revels, pleasures for a king, BROWNE. 183 Yeeld more delight ; for I liavo oft possest As much in this as all in all the rest, And that without expence, when others oft With their undoings have their pleasures bought. Requests, that with deniall could not meet, Flew to our shepheard, and the voyces sweet Of fairest nymphes intreating him to say What wight he lov*d ; he thus began his lay : " Shall I tell you whom I love ? Hearken then a while to me ; And if such a woman move As I now shall versifie ; Be assur d, 'tis she, or none That I love, and love alone. ** Nature did her so much right, As she scornes the help of ait. In as many vertues dight As e're yet imbrac*d a hart. So much good so truely tride Some for lesse were deifide. " Wit she hath without desire To make known e how much she hath And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly sweeten wrath. Ful of pitty as may be. Though perhaps not so to me. " Reason masters every sense. And her vertues grace her birth ; Lovely as all excellence, Modest in her most of mirth : Likelihood enough to prove Onely worth could kindle love. *' Such she is : and if you know Such a one as I have sung ; Be she browne, or faire, or so. That she be but somewhile young ; Be assured, 'tis she, or none That I love, and love alone." 184 BROWNE. Vrnus by Adonis' side Crj'ing kist and kissing cryde, Wrung her hands and tore her hayre For Adonis dying there. « Stay," (quoth she) " O stay and live I Nature surely doth not give To the earth her sweetest flowres To be seene but some few houres." On his face, still as he bled For each drop a tear she shed, Which she kist or wipt away, Else had drownM him where he lay. " Fair Proserpina" (quoth she) " Shall not have thee yet from me ; Nor thy soul to flye begin While my lips can keepe it in." Here she clos*d again. And some Say, Apollo would have come To have cur'd his wounded lym. Rut that she had smother'd him. Nevermore let holy Dee 0*re other rivers brave. Or boast how (in his jollity) Kings row'd upon his wave. But silent be, and ever know That Neptune for my fare would row. Those were captives. If he say That now I am no other. Yet she that beares my prison's key Is fairer than Love's mother ; A god tooke me, those one lesse high, They wore their bonds, so doe not I. Swell, then, gently swell, ye floods, As proud of what you beare. And nymphes that in low corrall woods String pearles upon your hayre, BROWNE. 185 Ascend: and tell if ere this day A fayrer prize was seene at sea. See the salmons leape and bound, To please us as we passe, Each mermaid on the rockes around, Lets fall her brittle glasse. As they their beauties did despize. And lov'd no myrrour but your eyes. Blow, but gently blow, fayre winde. From the forsaken shore, And be as to the halcyon kinde. Till we have ferry 'd oVe : So maist thou still have leave to blow. And fanne the way where she shall goe. Floods, and nymphes, and windes, and all That see us both together. Into a disputation fall ; And then resolve me, whether The greatest kindnesse each can show Will quit our trust of you or no ? THE SIREN'S SONG.— FROM THE INNER TEMPLE MASQUE. Steere hither, steere, your winged pines, All beaten mariners. Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines, A prey to passengers ; Perfumes far sweeter than the best Which make the phoenix' urn and nest, Feare not your ships, Nor any to oppose you, save our lips ; But come on shore Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more. For swelling waves, our panting breasts, Where never stormes arise, Exchange ; and be awhile our guests : For stars gaze on our eyes. The compass, love shall hourly sing, And as he goes about the ring. We will not misse To tell each point he nameth with a kisse. B B 186 ROBERT HERRICK. RoBBBT Hbrrick wu boHi III LondoR towards the cIom of the ymx 1591. Hit fkther was a goldimith in Cheapcide.— He received hi* education at Cambridge— tot at St. John's and aftcrwardii at Trinity Hall— and commenced the study of the law, which he relinquished for that of divinity. In 1629, he was presented by Charles the First to the living of Dean Prior, in Devonshire ; flrom this liviiig he was ejected during the civil war ; but it appears that the removal was not undesirable; he seems to have quitted, without regret, his parishioners, whom he describes as "a ro^ generation," "churlish as the seas," and "rude (almost) as rudest salrages." He assumed the hahit of a layman and resided in Westminster, by the assistance of some wealthier royalists, until the Restoration replaced him in his vicarage. He iived to an advanced age, but the year in which he died has not been asceitained. His poetical reputation rests, chiefly, upon a few lyric pieces, the pure sentiment, the deep feeling, and the thrilling pathos of which, are so rare as to place his name high in the list of British Poets. His versification is peculiarly graeefU and harmonious ; few writers indeed have more successfully penned accompaniments to music — for even as they read, and without the association of sound, his lines are tuned to melody. Herrick, however, abounds In overstrained conceits, and is occasiooally coarse and indelicate. It is not enough that he has told us, " altiunigh his rhymes were wild, his life was chaste." The example of ill acts is less prejudicial than the example inculcated by ill writing. The one may be forgotten when the actor is no more remembered, but the other endures to work evil long alter the mithor has ceased to exist. We may, however, hope that the Poet not only saw but unended his error, and that the following pious prayer was a prayer of the heart: — " For these mjr anbapUxed rhymes. Writ in By wild anhallowed timec. For rvery BenleBce cUate and word. That'* act inUld with thee, O Lord. PorflTe me, Ood, aad blot each Unt Oat of my booli that ia not thlae t But if, 'moagst M, thoa fladest one Worthy thy benedicUoa. That one of all the rest shall hf The glory of my work, and me." About the year 1648, he published his volume of ** Hesperides," and soon after- wards, his *' Noble Numbers, or short Pious Pieces, wherein, (amongst other things) he sings the Birth of Christ and sighs for his Saviour's sufferings on the Crosse." Our specimens have been taken from the former;— his "Noble Numbers" being by no means worthy of the high themes of which he wrote, if we except the ** Dirge of Jephtha," and the " Liuny of the Holy Spirit," both of which are exceedingly beau- tifiil ; ftill of pure and holy thoughts, and forming singular contrasts to the more Ught and careless productions of moments less sacred to reflection. An engraved portrait of the Poet accompanies an early edition of his works. It is that of a man to whom the gay was more natural than the grave ; and whose ** habit," as a lajrman, suited better his tastes and inclination than his robes as a priest. The muse of Herrick is surpassingly gladsome and joyous. He was a light-hearted bard, who bounded trom flower to flower with the gay thoughtlessness of the butterfly rather than the patient labour of the bee. He appears as if giving himself up to enjo3rmcnt— his life like a summer day— with the zest of an epicurean. He revels among his thoughts. Springing forth naturally and without an eflfort, they take the form of verse, airy and playful as the thistledown that Is borne with the breexe flrom one spot to another, and, like the thistledown, rarely tarrying long enough on any to carry into air a particle of earth. His heart must have been always young ; for with him care appears to have rather resembled a companion whom he could dismiss at pleasure, than the (hmiliar associate who so frequently sits and communes with poets. We may, indeed, characterise the poetry of Herrick by a passage tnna himself:— " Has it a body ! Aye, and winga With thuusaad rare encolourings { And. as it flies, it gently singi ' L.oTe honey ytalds, but never stings.' " .^'.^^\ .•..•'■\h .:.■. I I'lvL.— !<.■ .M.:| l.-i \\ HKN I lu'lioM a J-niTc'st sjn'rad With Nilki'ii tn-es upon thy head; Ami when 1 s«*(' that other (hcssc Of Howf-rs s(?t in conieliiiossc : When I beliohl another ^race In the ascent of curious lace, Which like a jiinacle (h>th shew The to|), an panics the motto, " O wretched man that I am, who shall deliver me trom the body of this death?" represents a man standing within a skeleton. They are not all however of this class ; for example, one consists of a helmet tiimed into a beehive, surrounded by its useful labourers— the motto, *' F^ hello pax."— The faults of Quarles are large and numerous. He would have escaped this censure if he had himself followed the advice he gave to others : — " Clothe not thy language either with obscurity or affec- tation." No writer is either more affected or more obscure. It is only by raking that we can gather the gold; yet it is such as will reward the seeker who has courage to undertake the search. His sagacity and good sense are unquesticmable. and occasionally there is a rich outbreak of fancy : while at times he startles us by compressing, as it were, a volume into a single line. But he is often bombastic, and not seldom flat and prosaic— evils that are not to be found in his prose writings. The sacredness of his object doubtless pushed him on to communicate his observations and reflections through the medium of verse — he sought ** to mix the waters of Jonian and Helicon in the some cup" — to gather his laurels upon Mount Olivet— and the attempt was singuUirl) unsuccc:>sful. AN KLF.OY. People, that travel tlirougli thy wasted lano]Milar in h'm uwn tinu', although they have long since ceakcd to retain poisL'ssion (if thi- staKf. In li'ilC. ShirU-y published a volume of iH>eni». from which three of our extractit liavc Infu made. I'ht-y are little known: and, we believe, have never been rejirinted. Fi«»ui niie of bin i>la)s we have selectr«l the most |>erfeft of his shorter coinpoMtionx— •' Iit-ath's Final ContjueAt :" that, entitled " Vietoriouii Men of ilarth," in taken from " Cuiiid and TK-ath," aina.sque printed In UJ.'iS. His poems runhivt e\rlu>ivi'ly of vhort pieces, with the exception of one which record* the Stor>- of Narcissus. They are not of a high order ; but nmomt them may \h' found many of eonsiderable beauty. He wrote in .in eahy and (.Tiireful fctyle; but hin lyrics acvm to be the pnxluce of hnurs devoted to amuM'meni and ri'lnxatiun r.ither than to yeriouti thou;:ht. The iM>et enjoyed the estii-m of hie eunteniporarie», and apjiears to have b-ti a blame!e:iK lire. The productions of bin pen, indtttl, rarr> with llu-ni ainplf pnmf that h\» principles were enli>ivd on the itide of virtue : and although he iK'ca-iionally dwi-lls uiN>n themes tinwortb} of tlie Mmie, he \* rarely coar!t few years, collected and republished with note-i. by Mi (iillord and the llev. Alexander Dyce. The glories of our birth and stntc; Arp shadows, not substantial t)iing») ; There is no anwour against fate ; Death lays his icy han«, that before thi«. Never saluted audience." But 80 little had he looked into futurity, or anticipated his own destiny, that he added — he did not " meas To swear himself a factor for the Kese." It was performed in 1621-5, and printed in 1631. Shirley continued to write for the stage until 10-12, when the first ordinance of both Houses of Parliament for the sup- pression of stage plays was issued ; then, unable to live by his talents as a dramatist, he resumed his former occupation as a teacher : and *' not only gained a comfortable subsistence, but educated many ingenious youths, who afterwards proved most emi- nent in divers faculties." In this capacity, he was also a writer : "for the greater benefit and delight of young beginners," he published several elementary works. " At length," according to Wood, " he, with his second wife, Frances, were driven by the dismal conflagration that happened in London in 1666, from their habitation near to Fleet -street, into the parish of St. Ciiles's in the Fields, in Middlesex ; where, being in a manner overcome with atfrightments, disconsolatioiis, and other miseries, occasioned by that fire, and their losses, they both died within the compass of a natural day." Garrick, in a Prologue to one of Shirley's Plays, says — " He painted Enflish manners, RnfUah men. And formed bis taste on Shakespeare and old Ben." And this brief criticism judiciously characterises one of the best of our dramatic writers : — the author of thirty-nine plays ; the greater number of which were to the highest degree popular in his own time, although they have long since ceased to retain poHsession of the stage. in 1646, Shirley published a volume of poems, fix)m which three of our extracts have been made. They are little known ; and, we believe, have never been reprinted. From one of his plays we have selected the most perfect of his shorter compositiona — " Death's Final Conquest ;" that, entitled " Victorious Men of Earth," is taken ftom " Cupid and Death," a masque printed in 1653. His poems consist exclusively of short pieces, with the exception of one which records the Story of Narcissus. They are not of a high order ; but among them may be found many of considerable beauty. He wrote in an easy and graceful style ; but his lyrics seem to be the produce of hours devoted to amusement and relaxation rather than to serious thought. The poet enjoyed the esteem of his contemporaries, and appears to have led a blameless life. The productions of his pen, indeed, carry with them ample proof that his principles were enlisted on the side of virtue ; and although he occasionally dwells upon themes unworthy of the Muse, he is rarely coarse, and never indecent : from the vice of his age he was, at least, comparatively firee. His dramatic works have been within the last few years, collocted and republished with note^i, by Mr. GifTord and the Rev. Alexander Dyce. The glories of our birth and state Are i^hatlows, not substantial tilings ; There is no armour against fate ; Death lays his icy liands on kings. Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spaile. Some men with swords may reap the field. And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; But their strong nerves at last must yuld ; *20V SIIIRT.EY. 'J'hoy tamo hut one another still. Karly or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murnmring breath, When they pale captives creep to death. The garlan', 1605. His mother was " a very beautiful woman, of a f^ood wit and eon- VRrsation," and as Shakspeare had frequented "the Crown" on his Journeys ftom Warwickshire to Ix)ndon. scandal assigned other motlTes than those of friendship to the interest he early manifested towards the youth, his namesake and his godson. In 1621. he was entered at Lincoln College ; but. being "strongly affected to lights studies." he courted, and was admitted to. the society of the wita of his time ; became page to the Duchess of Richmond, "very famous in thoae days ;'* and was subsequently received into the family of Lord Brooke. '* His constant attendance upon the court" led, on the death of Ben Jonson, to his appointment as Poet Laureat. During the troublous times that followed, Davenant took part with the king ; and was subsequently made, by the Earl of Newcastle, Lieutenant-general of his Ordnance. He obtained credit as a soldier, and was knighted by Charles the First, at the siege of Gloucester. On the decline of the king's afbira, Davenant retired to France, where he obtained the confidence of the queen, and where he com- menced his poem of Oondibert, which he afterwards resumed while a prisoner in Cowes Castle; but the continiiation of which he ceased, — being, to use his own words, "interrupted by so great an experiment as dying." His life was saved, it is said, chiefly by the interference of Milton, who rescued from the block " the head of this son of the Muses ;" and it is believed that the intercession of Davenant mainly contributed to preserve Milton ftom the scaffold when matters changed in England. He died in 1668, and was interred in Westminster Abbey. The only poem he produced, If we except his dramas and a few minor " addresses," is Gondibert,— which he. unfortunately, left unfinished. It is on this his poetical reputation depends ; and critics have remarkably differed as to its merits. His otject was to produce an epic on a plan altogether original, " an endeavour to lead Truth through unfrequented and new ways, by representing Nature, though not in an affected, yet in a new dress." Accordingly he sets out with upbraiding the followers of Homer as "a base and timorous crew of coasters, who would not adventure to launch forth on the vast ocean of invention." He rejects all supemattiral machinery, and constructs his poem on the exact model of a drama,— the five books being parallel to the five acts, and the cantos, which vary fh>m five to eight, answering to the scenes. His plan was, therefore, at least, fantastic ; in avoiding the one extreme he fell into the other ; and carried too fkr his high and independent notions of eman- cipating epic poetry firom slavish allegiance to ancient authority. The poem, though constructed on the actual, is without the charm of reality. It is cold and abatracted ; and affects more by its occasional Iwauties — ^majestic sentiments, ingeniotia concep- tions, and epigrammatic turns— than by its influence over the fancy or the heart A single error therefore, a false step at the outset, deprived Davenant of " what his large soul appears to have been f\ill of, a true and permanent glory." Yet the reader of Gondibert, long and tedious, as a whole, though it be, will find abundance to compen- sate for its defects. It is full of chivalrous grandeur, noble thoughts, harmonious diction,— and displays an accurate but liberal knowledge of human nature, and a deep spirit of philosophy. In our limited space it would be impossible to give even an outline of the plot. It is chiefly founded on the rivalship of two heroes for the hand of Rhodalind : the one is slain in combat, and the survivor, wounded, is convejred to the care of the sage Astragon, whose " only pledge," with " untaught looks and an unpractised heart," weakens the influence of the maid, whose " looks like empire showed." We arc left to imagine the conclusion— for, as we have stated, the poem is unfinished ; perhaps, as it is hinted by one of its warmest advocates, because the Poet foresaw the difficulty of accomplishing his object, and "chose to submit to a voluntary bankruptcy of invention, rather than hazard his reputation by going farther." The experiment, for such it was, of working upon a new plan, has com- paratively failed ; Davenant is now little read ; his flune scarcely outlived his days. But posterity, in neglecting him, has not done justice: and it was a silly verdict that condemned him for having rehearsed " A th«in« tll-choteB in lll-chnneii vrnc." jjavk:nan']\ FROM GONl)l:"EUT. To Astragoii, Ilcav'n for Micccssion jiinc One onely [)le(ljr(s iin muse were given to the world. He had become the suitor of the Lady Dorothea Sidney, daughter of the Earl of Leicester, whom he immortalized as Sacharissa, a name ** formed, as he used to say, pleasantly,*' from sacharum, sugar. Tet he describes her as haughty and scornful, and places the passion with which she inspired him in contrast with his love for the more gentle Amoret. Although unsuccessful with both, his fate sat lightly on him.* As a politician, he was unworthy his mother's blood — ^fickle and unsteady— •hiding like a weathercock — ftuni the commonwealth to the king, firom the king to the commonwealth, and then to the king again. Meanly securing his owrn safety, by appearing as a witness against his associates in a conspiracy to overthrow the Commons when arrayed against the crown, and whining out a pltifiil moan for pardon at the Bar of the House, in which he had previously held the language and maintained the bearing uf a man— be succeeded in purchasing his life at the expense of honour, and was for many years an exile in France. Through his various changes of fortune lie was followed by his yielding and convenient muse. The most vigorous of all his poems is a '* Panegyrick to my Lord Protector," whom he praises in the extreme of poetic extravagance. But— the second Charies ascends the throne, and the zealous royalist is ready with his greeting to the monarch " upon hia happy return." The Political Poet however seems to have been estimated at his ftiU value :— and was left with no other recompense than his laurels. He died in London in the autumn of 1688— disappointed in his wish to have relin- quished life on the spot that gave him birth, "to die like the stag where he waa rouz'd." He is described as possessing rare personal advuitages, exceedingly eloquent, and as one of the most gallant and witty men of his time ; so much so, that according to Clarendon, " his company was acceptable where his spirit was odious." The first edition of his poems was printed in 1645— prefixed to it was a whimsical address purporting to be " from the Printer to the Reader," assigning as a reason for their publication, that surreptitious copies had found their way into the world, " ill set forth under his name"— so ill that he might Justly disown them. Waller obtained a reputation greater than his deserts. He has been absurdly styled the father of English verse— lauded as " finding English Poetry like the ore in the mine, some ftparkllng bits here and there, and leaving it refined and polished " — and as "understanding our tongue the best of any man in England." Even Dryden says, " the excellence and dignity of rhyme were never fully known till Mr. Waller t-aught it" — and one of his biographers, after quoting the paneg>'rics of some of his con- temporaries, adds, with strange simplicity, "we must confess there is something more great and noble In Milton." As a lyrical poet, however, his claims upon our admiration are by no means inconsiderable. "Waller's smoothness" was the theme of Pope— but this is his chief merit. To compare him with Shakspeare and Ben Jonson his predecessors, or with Milton and Cowley his contemporaries, even in smoothness, that second-rate quality of the Poet, is absurd. His mind was undoubtedly a narrow one— in his conceptions there was nothing grand or lofty;— in all ho produced, there is not the slightest token that any topic of his muse had ever touched his heart. Ho was a flatterer— and a servile one. Hia devotion to women was mere gallantry— a fashion of the age in which he lived. Of tenderness, pathos, or that true love which breathes from the soul as well as the Upa, he knew nothing. • SathjiUsa aad her lover met lung after Ihc spring ol life bad pasted, and on her atking hiM " tihen he woald write aach Anr versca upon her •gato. the Poet tomewlMt angalUBU> replied, **0, Madam, wImb yoa ate at joang agala f" ^ !«.' A VEKY YOUNG LADY. Why caiiu' I so untimely foilh Into a world which wanting tiu'ts Could (entertain us with no worth Or shadow of felicity ? That time should me so far remove From that wliich I was born to love ! Vet, fairest blossom, do not slight That age which you may know so soon ; The rosic morn resigns her light, And milder glory, to liie noon ; And then what wonders shall you ih), Whose dawning beauty wai'uis us so ? 214 WALLER. Hope waits upon the flowry prime. And summer, though it be less gay, Yet is not look'd on as a time Of declination or decay. For, with a full hand, that does bring All that was promis*d by the spring. 80N0. Go lovely rose, Tell her that wastes her time and me. That now she knows. When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young. And shuns to have her graces spy*d. That hadst thou sprung In desarts, where no men abide. Thou must have uncommended dy'd. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retir* d ; Bid her come forth, Suffer her self to be desir'd, And not blush so to be admir'd. Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee : How small a part of time they share. That are so wondrous sweet and fair. TO A LADY SINGING A SONG OF IlIS COMPOSING. Chloris, your self you so excel, When you vouchsafe to breath my thought^ That like a spirit with this spell Of my own teaching I am caught. That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which on the shaft that made him die Espy'd a feather of his own. Wherewith he wont to soar so high. WALLER. 215 Had eccho, with so sweet a grace, Narcissus loud complaints rctuni'd, Not for reflection of his face, But of his voice the boy had burned. ON A QIRDLE. That which her slender waste confin*d, Shall now my joyful temples bind ; No monarch but wou*d give his crown, His arms might do what this has done. It was my heav'ns extreame^t sphear, The pale which held that lovely dear ; My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move. A narrow compass, and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair : Give me but what this riban bound. Take all the rest the sun goes round. LOVE*a FAREWELL. Treading the path to nobler ends, A long farewel to love I gave ; Resolved my country, and my friends. All that remained of me should have. And this resolve no mortal dame. None but those eyes cou'd have overthrown, The nymph, I dare not, need not name. So high, so like her self alone. Thus the tall oak which now aspires Above the fear of private fires. Grown and design'd for nobler use, Not to make warm but build the house, Tho* from our meaner flames secure, Must that which falls from heav*n indure. 216 WILLIAM IIABINGTON. William Habinotox wAMborn at Hcndllp, in Worcestershire, on the 5th Norember, 1A05. HiH family were Roman Cathulioi, and apiicar to have been deeply involved in the intrifTiit^ii of thr time, hii father liavinK Ruflfervd six years' ImpriMmment in tlie Tower, and his uncle having bcon executed for high treason. Tlie mother of the Port is believed to have written to Lord Montcagle the letter that led to s diaoorteiy of tho' Gunpowder Plot. Ilabington was educated by the Jesuits at St. Omen, wltt a viev to his becoming a member of their Society ; but the ill fortunes of his z«lntlvM| n^ doubtless, his own taste, led him to disreliKh the embroilment of poUtlM; he lelvaiid to his own country, and married Lucia, the daughter of WilUam Herbert; the fill Lord Fowls ; the lady whom he has Immortaliied under the name of Cm^ai^ He died in the prime of life on the SOth of November, I6M, having taken little perl !■ |ht eventful struggles of the period ; for there appears to be no ground fiw the lat&nHlfap of Wood, that he *< did run with the times, and was not unknown to OHviv. ttv usurper." His Poems were first published in 1G34, classed under three heeds : —a MtalraHi -A Wife; a Holy-Man ; each part being prefaced by "a character" in ^oie. The Mrts of the Poet bear evidence of the excellence of his dispositicm and the purity af hk heart; and " the JakC Krepei MmetbiBf of his flory la hU doat." He regards woman, not as the slave of sensual pleasures, but as, bscause of hw virtue, modesty, gentleness, and intellectual endowments, deserving "a aoUe lof« to serve her, and a firee poesie to speake her.** His compositions, therefine^ proscnt a grateftil contrast to the " loose copies of lust " that distinguish the times in which he lived; unhappily, so fine an examine found but few imitatori. It is dcUghtftal te know that the beautiful and perfect picture the l\)et has drawn of a **good womaa,* is not an imaginary one — and that he who writes so sweetly of the mistress writes as sweetly of the wife : that she was his companion and his friend — so true a IHend, that " her husband may to her communicate even his ambitions: and if successe crowne not expectation, remaine nevcrthelessc uncontemn'd" — ** colleague with him In the empire of prosperity, and a safe retiring place when adversity exiles him fhun the world ; " — " inquiMitive onely of new wayes to please him," while " her wit saylen by no other compasse than that of his direction." Such a woman therefore eould be loved and lauded only by a true heart and a respectAil muse. Consequently, in the poems of Ilabington we find nothing of the rude passion of the Satyr, or of the turbulent strains of one who mingles in riotous union Love and Bacchus. If he occasionally indulges in quaint conceits ; if at times he is more ingenious thxm imaginative; if he is now and then caught by the glare of felse wit rather than warmed by the light of true feeling; If he yields more to reason than to passion — ^we have enough to make amends fur these defects in the veritable beauties with which his compositions abound. Our readers will probably agree with us, if they peruse the selections we have introduced from the writings of one whose muse *' never felt a wanton heat," and whose invention was never " sinister tTom the straight way of purity." If Habingtou " did drive sgainst the stream of beat wits. In erecting the self-same altar to Chastity and Love," we must, at least, admit that his antidpations — characteristic of the man — have been realized ; his verses have that proportion, in the world's opinion, that Heaven sllotted him In fortune — " not so hi^h as to be wondered at, nor so low as to be contenmcd." But wo may give him praise far higher than that he sought for his productions ; in his life ho was ** the holy-man" he painted; whose " happincsse is not meteor-like, exhaled from the vapours of this world ; but shines a flxt starre, which when by misfortune it appears to fall, onely casts away the slimle matter" — who " sees the covetous prosper by usury, yet waxeth not leane with envie; and when the posteritie of the Impious flourish, questions not the divine Justice ; for temporall rewards distinguish not ever the merits of men; and who hath beene of couiicel with the ^tcmall?" Posterity is his debt Castara I would speake my zeale. 218 IIABINGTON. THE DERCRIITION OF CA8TARA. Like the violet which alone Prospers in some happy shade ; My Castara lives unknowne, To no looser eye betrayed, For sheets to herself untrue, Who delights i* th* publicke view. Such is her beauty, as no arts Have enrich*t with borrowed grace. Her high birth no pride imparts, For she blushes in her place. Folly boasts a glorious blood, She is noblest being good. Cautious she knew never yet What a wanton courtship meant ; Nor speaks loud to boast her wit, In her silence eloquent Of herself survey she takes, But *tweene men no difference makes. She obeyes with speedy will Her grave parents* wise commands : And so innocent, that ill. She nor acts, nor understands. Women's feet runne still astray If once to ill they know the way. She sailes by that rocke, the court. Where oft honour splits her mast : And retir dnesse thinks the port. Where her fame may anchor cast. Vertue safely cannot sit. Where vice is enthroned for wit. She holds that daye's pleasure best. Where sinne waits not on delight ; Without maske, or ball, or feast, Sweetly spends a winter s night 0*re that darknesse whence is thrust. Prayer and sleepe oft governs lust HABINGTON. 219 She her throne makes reason cHmbe, While wild passions captive lie ; And each article of time, Her pure thoughts to heaven Hie : All her vowes religious be, And her love she vowes to me. TO C...V1ARA. Give me a heart where no impure Disordered passions rage, Wliich jealousie doth not obscure. Nor vanity t' expence ingage, Nor wooed to madncisse by queint oathes. Or the fine rhetoricke of cloathes, Which not the softnesse of the age To vice or folly doth decline ; Give me that heart (Castara) for 'tis thine. Take thou a heart where no new looke Provokes new appetite : With no fresh charm of beauty tooke, Or wanton stratagem of wit ; Not idly wandring here and tliere, Led by an am'rous eye or eare. Aiming each beautious marke to hit ; Which vertue doth to one confine : Take thou that heart, Castara, for *tis mine. And now my heart is lodged with thee, Observe but how it still Doth listen how thine doth with me ; And guard it well, for else it will Runne hither backe ; not to be where I am, but 'cause thy heart is here. But without discipline, or skill. Our hearts shall freely 'tweene us move : Should thou or I want hearts, wee'd breath by love. 220 JOHN MILTON. JoHW MiLTov, the son of John Milton, a •criTener, was born on the 9th of i ber, 1608, in the parish of All Hallows, Bread-street, London. The opportimlties of a learned education lay within his reach, and he availed himself of them to the utter- most. His youth was a youth of intense study. Ab onno tetatU duodecimo t%» unquam ante tnediam noctem a Ittcubrationibtu cnbitum ducederem. Poetry, however, the latest source of his glory and satisfied desire, was the earliest also. It was his first emotion and his last— the life that chanced between, the troubled sea of noises and hoarse disputes into which he was suddenly thrown, served only to make that final haren. which was ever his hope, a repose of grander and more collected glory. The "inward prompting" never abandoned him — "that by labour and intense study, (which I take to be my portion in this life.) joined with the strong propensity of nature, I might perhaps leave something so written to after-times as they should not willingly let die." He entered Cambridge, but the barren system of University teach- ing oflfended him, and he quitted it in disgust. He had, betides, other motives. " By the intentions of my parents and friends, I was destined firom a child to the service of the Church. I thought it better to prefer a blameless silence befatv the sacred office of speaking, bought and began with servitude and forswearing." He took reAige (Vom divinity in his father's house in Buckinghamshire. *' Do you ask what I am meditating, my Deodati ? By the help of heaven, an immortality of fame !* He had even then, numbering four or five and twenty years, achieved it ! He had written the Ode on Christ's Nativity— one of the grandest, the sublimest, and most various of his poems— Arcades, Comus. L' Allegro, II Penseroso, and Lycidas. Shortly after this he went abroad— met Marvcll there— visited the great and injured GalUeo— and confessed the infiuence of Leonora Baroni, La Bella Adriana, whose inexpressible charms of voice and of pemonal beauty he has made immortal. Suddenly a sound from England arrested his ftirther travel. " I thought it base to be travelling for amusement abroad while my fellow citiiens were fighting for liberty at home." He returned, and from that hour devoted his services to the SUte, in schemes for the education of youth (which he practically illustrated), and in the composition of treatises of political and religious government, unequalled in majesty and richness of style. With modest pride he says, " I exercised that ft^edom of discussion which I loved. Others, without labour or desert, got the possession of honours and emda- ments : but no one ever knew me, cither soliciting any thing myselt or through the medium of my friends ; ever beheld me in a supplicating posture at the doors of the senate or the halls of the great." Calmly and contentedly he remained a schoolmaster, limited in his resources (" my life has not been inexpendve, in learning and voyaging about"), until 1649—" when after the subversion of the monarchy, and the establishment of a republic, I was surprised by an invitatioD from the council of state, who desired my services in the office of foreign affkira." This appointment he owed, we think, to the infiuence of President Bradahaw, a relative by marriage. The successive marriages of the Poet himself can only be alluded to. His first wife was utterly unworthy of his genius and affectionate care ; — his second wife proved to him an " espoused saint" indeed* full of love, sweetness, and goodness ; — and his third wife, the young partner of his age, devoted herself to his necessities, and with her loving solicitude made him " not alone," although " in darkness, and with dangers compaas'd round, and aolitude." The world owes to this excellent woman a debt of honour and of gratitude, which haa never been sufficiently p^d. It is unnecessary to allude to the changes which had left Milton thus " blind but bold." On Sunday the 8th of November. 1674. he died with silent calmness — having finished the great works to which in his earliest and hit latest days he had sanctified his wonderful genius. The character of those works may be described in one word, that word conveying the accomplishment of the utmost conceivable grandeur. They were Epic, nundon in them reaches us through the medium of imagination, grand and distant, hut per- manent and universal. Cliaracter In them is simple, not various, subject only to the mightiest circumstances, and elevated to the sublimest sphere of action. Tributary to these Milton exercises every Ainction of the poet, sweetness, natural imagery, un- paralleled beauty of description, thought, and fiuicy. In force of style no. (me, we think, has ever approached him. ^i^Atm^ • a nX m V* «■ «»%i ^ V A*^« ^d« « • d 111 Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mong.st Iiorrid shajM*s, and shrieks, and slights nniioly, Find out some uncoutli cell. Where brooding Darkness sj)reads his jeah)us wings, And the night raven sings; There under ebon sliades, and low brow'd roeks, As ragged as thy loeks, In dark CinniuTian desert ever dwell. But come, thou (ioddess, fair and fre(», In Heav'n yclep*d Euphrosyne, '222 MILTON. And by men, heart-easing Mirth, Whom lovely Venus at a birth With two sister Graces more To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore ; Or whether (as some sages sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring. Zephyr with Aurora playing, As he met her once a-maying. There on beds of violets blue. And fresh-blown roses wash't in dew. Filled her with thee a daughter fair, So bucksom, blithe, and debonair. Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful Jollity, Quips and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nods and becks, and wreathed smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. And love to live in dimple sleek ; Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Come, and trip it as you go On the light fantastick toe ; And in thy right hand lead with thee, The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty ; And if I give thee honour due. Mirth, admit me of thy crew To live with her, and live with thee. In unreproved pleasures free ; To hear the lark begin his flight. And singing startle the dull night. From his watch-towre in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; Then to come in spight of sorrow. And at my window bid good-morrow, Through the sweet-briar, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine : While the cock with lively din Scatters the roar of darknes thin, And to the stack, or the barn-dore. Stoutly struts his dames before. Oft list*ning how the hounds and horn Chearly rouse the slumbVing mom, From the side of some hoar hill. Through the high wood echoing shrill : MILTON. 22:5 Sometime >valkiiig not uiis(^eti By liedge-row elms, or hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate, Where the great Sun begins his state, Roab*d in flames, and amber light. The ck)uds in thousand liveries (light. While the plowman neer at hand Whistles o're the furrow'd land. And the milkmaid singeth blithe. And the mower whets his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tah» Under the; hawthorn in the dale. Strait mine eye hath caught new pleasures. Whilst the landskip round it measures ; Russet lawns, and fallows gray, Where the nibling flocks do stray. Mountains on whose barren brest The labouring clouds do often re